A Space Between
by Enigma-Eggroll
Summary: A man out of a time and a woman out of place find a way forward in a world filled with uncertainty.
1. Chapter 1

Title: **A Space Between**  
Category: Movies » Thor  
Author: Enigma-Eggroll  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Genre: Friendship/Romance  
Published: 06-10-12, Updated: 06-16-12  
Chapters: 10, Words: 21,067

**Chapter 1: Chapter 1**

The hardest part of the day is the end. Not turning out the light or leaving a few loose ends to dangle, but flipping that little switch in his head from 'work' to 'life.'

A month has passed, and everyone is scattered to the four winds. For those left behind, life continues at its usual pace. The invasion showed just how much larger the world is, and without a bridge, the earth remains isolated. The scientists huddle together, their dark heads full of brilliance that Steve can't comprehend. Already the odd man out, he's left behind, watching them at their computers, scribbling complex algorithms on glossy white boards and arguing over equations no normal person can understand.

He's alone, at drift without an ally, someone who is perfectly content to see the potential in the world and enjoy the simple things in life. Someone who sees the world as he does, without all the fear and cynicism, simply hope.

**O - O**

The balcony is a happy accident, something he finds two weeks after Natasha and Clint's departure. Something in the lab has everyone wound up, a discovery made by the tiny, dark haired woman who people call Dr. Foster. She's young, not much older than Steve's physical age, as he calls it. The discovery has her excited, her cheeks flushed, and she's nothing more than a schoolgirl, glowing at the promise of a top mark or a special accolade. People flutter around her, swapping stacks of papers and mumbling about satellite trajectories and open windows. As they move away, the excitement moves with them, leaving Steve on the outside, looking in.

Dejected, he retreats to the elevators, jabbing the button that will take him to the gym. There won't be anyone there, but it doesn't matter, Steve thinks. They don't pay attention unless they need him.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, but it isn't anything new. He was created with a purpose, and outside of that, what is he? A man out of time and place, the war seventy years in the past. With no family, and no real friends to speak of, what is there for him other than punching bags and the intermittent call to save the world? He's in a new sort of deep freeze, but this time he's awake and fully aware of how easily he blends into the background.

A tower of boxes where the door to the gym should be is the first indication that something is wrong. Row after row of white boxes, neatly labeled and aligned flank the entire wall, which just hours before had been bare.

Steve turns slowly around, aware now of the details missed on his blind walk from the elevator - the lack of furniture, the quiet, and the organized chaos of storage. Somehow, he's gotten off at the wrong floor, stumbling off into an empty part of the building, put to use as storage. It's there, beyond the stacks, that he finds his oasis - a small balcony, the length and width of a delivery truck, shooting out over the New York skyline.

Too preoccupied with whatever it is that they've discovered, Steve's colleagues make no note of his absence. The balcony, located just two floors below the rooftop helipad, is semi-sheltered and safe, the perfect place to sneak away. Steve turns one of the empty boxes next to the balcony door into makeshift hidey hole, leaving behind books and magazines to pass the time. After a few weeks and no interruptions, he leaves a sketchpad and pencils behind, as well.

It's the closest thing he's had to any sort of home in more years than he can count.

**O - O**

Steve notices the shoes first – thin cotton, faded black with scuffed white rubber toes. They're the same shoes he wore as a child, stamping all his best memories with an indelible black star in a circle logo. They lay in a tumbled heap in front of the open balcony door. Turn chrome and glass into scarred wooden door in a fifth floor Brooklyn walk up, and they might have been his, once upon a time.

But this is more like The Three Bears than a fairy tale, and he highly doubts that the discarded tennis shoes belong to a little girl answering to the name Goldilocks.

"Hello?" Steve calls out. His voice bounces off the flat walls, the subtle echo picking up his flat, nasal o and elongating it into a caricature of his real voice.

There's no response.

He edges forward. There are no clouds to filter out the warm sunlight, washing everything in a brilliant blue-white filter. A woman lies lazily on the cement tile of the balcony, her loose, dark hair a stark contrast to the grey sparkling stone beneath her head. Small white cords snake up from a familiar black and silver box that rests on her stomach. Pepper, Tony, Coulson… they all live and die by these small devices – part phone, part computer, all mystery, at least where Steve is concerned.

The woman is a mystery, too, which overrides the natural urge toward irritation or invasion.. Her faded jeans and plain white t-shirt are by no means scientist appropriate, at least not compared to lab coats he sees day in and day out. She could be an employee of Stark Industries, but Steve doubts that affiliation. Her clothes are too casual for this modern, professional world. These are park clothes; worn by girls wandering around the boat pond and through the baseball fields, their thin arms and legs bared to the warm summer sun.

She's as different from those girls as a sphere amidst triangles. Round where they are angular, shadowed and three-dimensional where they are flat. She belongs in another time, with bright red lips and a full skirt that would set off her tiny waist.

_Will there ever be a time or place where I don't compare then and now?_ Steve wonders.

He's been coming up here for weeks, fleeing to this little terrace. And now, here is a glimmer of time past, in the exact spot meant to be free of everything that troubles him about this all too distant future. She's like a mirage, a ghost of everything that he once longed for, and never could have.

As if sensing his presence, the woman's eyes pop open, but she doesn't scramble away or threatening to call for help. Instead, she raises her hand slowly to block the afternoon sun, her head tipping to the side as she looks him up and down. When she's done, the woman drops her hand lazily backs to her stomach and her eyes drift shut.

"Take a picture," the woman says. Her speech is slower than he's accustomed to, and lacking in the usual New York City affectations. "It'll last longer."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Steve responds automatically. Too many years being drilled by his mother, who believed in the use of _yes, ma'ams_ and _no sir's _and _yes, pleases_ in all situations.

"I'm not old enough to be a ma'am, thank you very much," the woman says. There's a lilt in her voice, a little sing song annunciation – and if the woman's voice was deeper, she'd sound just like General Phillips.

Somehow, Steve doubts that General Phillips ever looked as good as this.

"Dude," the woman says, sitting up again. One eye is squinted shut to block out the light. "Anyone looking over the railing will see you. Now _sit_ or _move_."

Chastened, Steve follows her command, dropping down silently onto the tile. In his khaki pants and white t-shirt, he likes to think he doesn't look all that, maybe passing for some low level employee or intern, as he's heard the younger workers called.

The idea of anonymity, of being Steve, just plain old Steve, is as comforting as the warm sun on his face. He leans back against the glass door, and his eyes begin to drift shut as he absorbs the relative peace of their little oasis.

After a few minutes of quiet, the woman pulls in a deep, slow breath, and then pushes it out with a huff. "I'm tired of voices," she says without precursor, "so I decided it was a classical type of night. You like Copland?"

She passes one of the small white chords to Steve, the tip at the end shaped like the head of a hammer. It's a careless gesture, one offered by the innocent, or those with the naïve belief that the world is, in fact, a safe place. He accepts the object, and follows her lead, slipping the tiny plastic piece awkwardly into his ear. Trumpets, timpani's and French horns roar to life, a beautiful, simplistic paean to the common man.

He leans back against the door again, one eye squinted shut to block out the sinking sun.

"I'm Steve," he says, hand extended.

When she turns to face him, the corners of her mouth arc up slowly, but she makes no move to shake his hand. Her teeth are small and rounded, like little white tiles. It's not a perfect smile, but it's warm.

"Darcy," the brunette says. "Welcome to the last sane place on earth."


	2. Chapter 2

It's not until their fourth unplanned balcony meeting that Steve begins to think of it as _their_ place. He pushes his stack of books aside to make room for Darcy's things: a large container of sunscreen and tiny box, covered in perforated plastic to broadcast the contents of her iPod. She has something she calls a 'playlist' for every mood and occasion, and it's become the background for their conversations. After their first, rather awkward attempt at sharing earphones, it's much easier to hear the music she spends so much time picking out.

As she slowly begins to invade his space, Darcy takes note of Steve's books, and starts to leave offerings of her own. Dog-eared paperbacks on modern history and political theory that help to fill more of the gaps. When he presses, she shakes him off as if it's not a big deal.

"I have to contribute something. Besides, you're the only person I know who actually _likes_ history. If it weren't for you, I'd just have to schlepp them to a used bookstore and get depressed over getting fifty cents per book on something I paid twenty bucks plus for. Besides," she raises her finger, twirling slowly around her temple in an exaggerated fashion. Steve valiantly suppresses a chuckle, but the smile still breaks through, ""I like the idea that maybe…I have all this useless knowledge rattling around, but if you read them…"

"Then maybe we can talk about them."

"That's the spirit!" She jabs him in the shoulder, her fist glancing off his bicep like a fly off the windshield of a speeding car. "Ouch! You really need to lay off the milk, you know." She shakes her hand melodramatically. "The hormones in that shit will stunt your growth."

Steve laughs with her, but silently wonders how she would respond, were Darcy to know that milk hormones weren't even the tip of the iceberg.

Darcy turns back to the books, now two stacks deep. The paperback spines are cracked and well read, betraying just how much time they've both investigated in a quest for knowledge. She hooks her finger in the spine of a hardback, easing it forward and out so that the cover is visible. "_Pop Culture and Politics in the Fifties_, huh? Did you like it?"

She glances up at him, her eyebrows raised to reinforce the question. God, he's missed this - the ability to have a conversation that's not about orders or antagonism or idolatry. It's been so incredibly long.

"I'm not sure," he answers. It's the truth, not that he would lie about his feelings, but it's more complicated than just telling the truth. This little space on the eighty-ninth floor is off the map, so to speak. They're just Steve and Darcy here, with no preconceived notions. He's tiptoed up to the line so many times, constructing answers that are truthful but just the tiniest bit protected, just to keep this. Every time kills him just a little bit, but then Darcy laughs, or tells a story of her own, and it's all okay. Steve has decided finding a balance, a place where he can be him is more honest than holding a little tiny sliver back.

Someday, he tells himself…someday I'll tell her, but not just yet.

"There were parts of the book that were fascinating. All the art and change, but then the way it tied into other things…"

Darcy nods and slips the book back into its place. "Yeah, it's funny, you know, I always thought of the fifties as _so_ idealized. I took a Twentieth Century American History class in college, taught by a Polish national." She pushes the book back into the stack, tapping gently on it until it's completely in line with all the others. "The man grew up in Communist Poland, but he knew our history backwards and forwards. Imagine, seeing the US through someone else's eyes. It really helped put everything in perspective for me."

She looks up at Steve, but there's no smile this time. "Best class I ever had. Even better that it drove my parents crazy. They were the ones so high on college expanding my horizon, after all. Seems horizons are only expandable if they're PC."

Steve is completely entranced. Darcy's given him little glimpses into her life, talking about her apartment in Jersey City, her friendship with Jane Foster, even snippets of how she met Thor, but it's always been present tense and light. There's never been any depth, anything to show who she is or what she feels.

Steve presses forward gently, hoping to draw her out, to learn more about what makes this curious woman tick.

"Why history?" he asks. "It doesn't seem like the most…"

He stumbles, trying to find the right word to represent his thoughts, but Darcy saves him before he can stick his foot in his mouth.

"Practical? Like anything about me is practical," she waves a hand dismissively. "I like useless knowledge. History, politics, modern events, it's all a jumble in my head, and not very good for anything other than getting ten cents off a cup of coffee. Take for example…"

Darcy pulls out her iPod and lays it on top of the box. "Remember the day you found me up here and I played you Fanfare for the Common Man? The guy who wrote that was a New Yorker, and some say one of the most influential composers of the Twentieth Century. Look up American in the dictionary and his picture might as well be next to it. Didn't matter though, because after World War II he got yanked in front of the House Committee for Un-American Activities, all because he had convictions and stuck to them. You know what he did? He withdrew a submission that he'd been commissioned to write for President Eisenhower. I'd call it a very diplomatic fuck you to the establishment."

She pauses, gulping in a breath and continues. "The irony of it is, the man was gay, traveled all over the world, but it took him flipping the bird at old Ike to show up as a blip on anyone's radar. The minute he pulled out, McCarthy and his cronies were all over him, digging in his background and pulling out stuff that had been there for ages, just because he didn't play nice. While it's a total bullshit story, I love that stuff. But, it has no practical use, which is exactly how I ended up here."

Steve nods, hoping it comes across like agreement. He's aware of General Eisenhower, and his trajectory post war, but everything else is foreign.

"I'll take this," he promises, slipping the book out of the box, "and next time we can talk about it, okay? Maybe then you won't feel like there's a place for all that information."

He wants to say that she'll have a place where she belongs, but that's too forward. Others could say it and be charming, but charm was never his strong suit.

"You don't have to indulge me, Steve," she says. "Guys say no all the time, it happens."

He folds his arm across his chest, the book nestled safely against the buttons of his shirt.

"I'm not indulging you," he promises. "Besides, we might not agree, and I bet you like to argue."

Her jaw drops; mouth open with one of the numerous sharp rebuttals that come so easily for her, but in the end, Darcy doesn't say a thing. Her smile comes from the inside first, the corners of her eyes crinkling well before her lips begin to curve upward. Such a simple concession, and not really even that, but Steve knows he's given her a gift, something important. He doesn't understand why, but it feels good.

**O - O**

"But why," Steve demands, his voice echoing off the empty walls and boxes. "Why go from so optimistic to so cynical? How can the world change so much?"

Days later, it's still raining, and they're trapped inside. It's chilly for early September, and Darcy wears a long, dark gray cotton cardigan to keep warm. She pulls the sleeves down over her palms, hooking her thumbs just inside the hem to keep the stretched cotton in place.

"Easy, the division of Germany and the atomic bomb. We went from this isolated country, off doing our own thing, to controlling the fate of others."

"But it ended the war…"

"It also ruined millions of people's lives," she shoots back.

They're stuck in a cyclical argument, Steve trying desperately to understand the dissent and disillusionment following the war, while Darcy tries to make him understand the magnitude of his country's actions. It's a complicated dance, especially for a man born of honesty and good intentions.

"Sometimes the tough decision-"

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers," a disembodied voice echoes through speakers, neatly recessed in the ceiling. They're omnipresent, everywhere within the tower, and yet he's shocked to hear the voice issue forth. "There is urgent need of you upstairs, sir."

The gentle computerized voice with a genteel British accent does little to dull the shame as it burns its way through Steve's body. Hiding forever has never been an option, but at the same time, he wishes there was a better way to ease into the inevitable. Military tactician he may be, but dealing with the messier conventions of human interactions will never be his strong suit.

"I'm kind of busy right now," Steve says. Darcy's watching him, her hands still hidden inside the ridiculous sleeves of her sweater. If she's thinking anything, she's managing to hide it well behind a mask of ambivalence. Steve doesn't know how to feel about that. "They can brief me in on their findings later."

"It's not a briefing, sir," the computer insists. "There is a situation, and the team needs you immediately."

The silence is heavy. Steve must do something, but his path forward is anything but clear. The only thing he does know is that, when he gets on that elevator and heads up into whatever chaos is brewing, this door may close behind him for good.

In the end, Darcy solves the problem for both of them. He should expect it – she's always full of surprises.

"It's okay," she says, her arms crossing over her body. "You go save the world. I'll be here when you get back."

"Are you sure?" _Sure about what?_ Steve wonders. The question can cover so many things.

She unravels her fingers from her sweater sleeves and uses them as leverage to push up off the dusty floor. Standing tall, Darcy offers Steve a hand, her cool fingers wrapping around his wrist. He follows her lead, his grasp loose as he allows her to tug him upward.

"Just be safe," she demands. "The fifties are just a warm up. The sixties will have you apoplectic. Those conversations are going to be fun."

"Darcy-" he wants to explain, to give her a reason for his deception.

"I always knew," she says, her fingers still clasped around his wrist. She squeezes once and lets him go. "But that's only a title; just like being Jane's assistant is mine."

Her arms wrap back around her body, and he's suddenly aware of how small she is - even with her curves and fierce sense of self, she's fragile and so easily hurt.

"Go save the city, will ya?"

She's trying to cut the tension - to encourage him to go deal with whatever it is that lies ahead. It lays out the truth for Steve, in a way that he could never understand before. There is a difference between fighting for a concept and fighting for people, for a home.

He nods, not trusting clumsy words to communicate the mad swirl that is rushing through his head. Instead, he reaches out, coiling a loose strand of Darcy's hair around his finger, once, twice, three times.

"I'll see you in a little bit, okay?"

She smiles for him. It's not as warm as some of her others, but it's full of reassurance.

"Don't take too long, I was thinking maybe we could go get a burger after you get done kicking ass."

Across the floor, the elevator doors slide open, ending the conversation. At least for now.


	3. Chapter 3

It ends up being so much longer than the 'little bit' promised. After the briefing, there is a mad dash for gear. It doesn't leave enough time to stop and ask for a rain check.

The irony of the phrase is not is not lost on him, and Steve spends his few moments of peace turning over the similarity of his situation. While Peggy Carter and Darcy are nothing alike, there are similarities that hit home, most notably their unwavering conviction. In a different world, they probably would have been great friends.

As he continues to mine his memories of both the near and distant past, Steve decides that for some strange reason, someone has given him a second chance, and he's not going to squander it. To make the most of things, he begins to assemble a list of questions, which grows exponentially day-by-day. When did she know who he was and why did she not say anything about it top the list. There are simpler queries too – her last name, for starters. Time to recall gives him time to reflect, and Steve realizes there are so many things he doesn't know that he should.

The list soon becomes the one thing that keeps him going through the endless days, where he's bone tired and just wanting to sleep.

**O - O**

Four days since he's been gone, and Steve finally has a chance to sleep. They've taken over an abandoned building, the conference room a sort of staging ground for operations. With the day's briefing over, and a momentary lapse in fighting, Steve lays his head down on a table, enjoying the chill of the laminated wood against his skin. Barton sit in the corner, his shoulder wedged between the window and the wall, half-dozing, half watching the street below.

When he wakes, Clint is gone. The sun is too, and the shadows are long, chasing each other across the stained blue carpet as cars and planes fly by. It's still quiet, and Steve breathes a small sigh of relief. Maybe the temporary peace will be more than that, and they'll be able to go home soon.

"Excuse me, Cap?"

Steve tips back in his chair to gain a line of site to the door. Dr. Banner stands just inside.

"Can I have a moment?"

"Sure thing," he says. His voice is rough, his throat raw after days of shouting commands and warnings over blasts. Everything about him is raw – his muscles, the skin around his knuckles, even his nerves. "Have things leveled out?"

"For now," Dr. Banner says. His clothes are rumpled, pants and shirt probably slept in. They're all running ragged. "Some files came in for you. I pulled them down onto a tablet so you can take a look."

He walks slowly across the room, and it strikes Steve that he must be as, if not more tired than the rest of them. It takes an incredibly amount of strength to control 'the other guy,' as Dr. Banner calls him. Up close, the dark circles under his eyes are so dark that they may as well be paint.

"Thank you," Steve says, relieving the doctor of his burden. "I'll take a look in a bit."

Dr. Banner smiles, but doesn't release the tablet. "You may want to look now. And then you might want to stash it away. For your eyes only and all that."

He lifts and drops his shoulders, a cross between a laugh and a shrug, and backs toward the door.

"Have a good night, Cap."

"You too," Steve says. "Get some rest." His attention is too riveted on the small rectangle of plastic and metal in his hand to worry about the doctor, who would no doubt stumble off to find a place to sleep.

He cautiously presses the small circle at the bottom of the tablet, bring the screen to life. A small window requests that he place his finger on the screen to authentic. Once the machine is certain he is, in fact, Captain Steve Rogers, the background drops away, revealing black words on a white background:

_**You know, you could've just said you didn't like hamburgers.**_

_**Don't think you're off the hook, though. I expect a rousing discussion when you're back.**_

_**Darcy**_

_**P.S. You had better do your homework – I have to do Jane's laundry for a month in exchange for her help getting this through to you.**_

Four small images resembling folders dot the bottom of the screen. Each has a discreet label: Art, Media, History, Photos. It takes a few tries before Steve successfully opens the history folder. He's had numerous training sessions on how to use computers, laptops and tablets, and while he understands the basics, they still end up as foreign extensions of his body, too awkward to ever be effective.

It takes a minute flipping through the various files before understanding takes hold. While he's been gone, Darcy's been busy, compiling books, video and pictures about the 1960's. There are also playlists for the early and late sixties, classified by type.

The exhilaration doesn't replace his exhaustion, but it makes Steve feel infinitely lighter. He spends the next hour flipping through articles on President Kennedy and Camelot, before ultimately falling asleep to the sounds of Bobby Darin singing about his love beyond the sea.

When he does wake, the sun is out, and it's still quiet. In the far corner, where Barton napped the night before, Steve's duffle is packed and waiting.

It's time to go home.

**O - O**

It takes almost a full day to get home, what with time zones and flight protocol. When the quinjet finally touches down on the landing pad at Stark Tower, it's night again, and the lights of Manhattan sparkle like diamonds. From his vantage point, Steve can see the coast of New Jersey. He can't pick out Jersey City from Hoboken, but he knows that he'll be able to soon enough. Growing up in Brooklyn, there was never much reason to think beyond the five boroughs and later, when he was older, Germany. Not only have times changed, but it would seem he is too.

"Get out of here," Tony shouts from the edge of the landing pad. His hair is a mess, and there's a deep gash across the bridge of his nose, but it doesn't change his volume or his inappropriate sense of humor. "All of you. I'm sick of you. Get thee out of my sight until such time as I have…" He stops, waving his hand in the air to fill the gap. "Oh hell, I've got nothing. Go hit the showers, team. You won one for the Gipper."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching as the others shuffle off the landing pad, making sure to dodge the duffle bags and other gear. As Steve passes, he leans in, breathing in deep. "Slider, you stink."

Steve's too tired and too glad to be home to rise to the bait. It's been endless, little nits and jabs the entire flight home, alluding to a woman waiting for Cap at home. From the way he's laid them out, it's clear Tony has no clue who the mysterious woman is, simply that she exists. Now that they're back, it's simply a matter of time before the truth comes out, but Steve knows he's okay with that. He's actually okay with a lot of things.

The elevator ride down is quiet; everyone too spent and fed up with forced close quarters to attempt simple niceties any longer. Dr. Banner and Barton are the first off, followed by Natasha, whose hair is singed and just a bit shorter on the left side. Steve's the last one out, and he operates from memory more than awareness, using his shoulder to follow the bending corridor to the north side of the building. When they'd first set aside 'a suite of rooms' for him, he'd protested, claiming that his apartment was more than fine. Now he realizes that all the protesting is ridiculous, and he's just glad he can stumble the last few steps home and fall into bed for a few hours. He has every intent of being downstairs at 8 a.m., waiting for her to walk in the building, and he doesn't want to be late.

His eyes are heavy when he rounds the last corner, so tired that he doesn't see the small shape on the floor. He wouldn't have seen her at all, were it not for the backpack strap that tangles around his ankle. Steve catches himself, palm slamming against the wall to keep from crushing Darcy with his knee. She's completely oblivious, curled into herself as she clutches a sweater against her chest. From the curve of her body, knees arcing toward her chest, a strand of hair wedged in the corner of her mouth; it would seem that she's been there for a while.

Were he not so tired, Steve would sit down on the ground in front of her, and try to rough out a few quick sketches – just enough to capture the lines of her body in sleep. There's something so innocent, so completely overwhelming about her sleeping outside of his door that overwhelms Steve. Only one person, outside of his parents, ever cared enough to do something so ridiculous.

_He_ muses, _Bucky would have liked her a lot too_.

Steve's hands are in no condition to hold a pencil right now, so he gives in to his second choice, which in the end, may be the better way to go. He runs a finger gently across her cheek, just light enough to tickle. His mom used to wake him up the same way, and he still remembers how good it felt. "Hey, sleepyhead, wake up."

It takes three tries before she comes around, her dark eyes slowly working their way into focus.

"Wow. I'd say you're a site for sore eyes," she says, her voice husky from sleep. "But I think I'll go with you just look sore."

"I am," he admits. Never in his life has he made this honest of an admission. As puny Steve Rogers, he refused to admit that the abuse hurt, and as Captain America, it was his duty to inspire others. Being able to admit this level of humanity is almost as good as having Darcy here and one wouldn't have come without the other.

"Let's get you inside," she says, refusing the hand he immediately offers. "I don't know if ibuprofen will make a dent on you, but if not, a few wet towels and some ice might take the edge off."

She tentatively extends her hand; her fingers whisper light across his cheekbone. "You've got a shiner."

"I've had worse," he says, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

Darcy gives him another smile, and then walks slowly into the room. He follows behind her, still tired and sore, but infinitely better now that he's home.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve wakes to the sound of running water. Out of habit, he rolls to the left, searching for the alarm clock, but the sheets are tangled around his legs, forcing him to kick free before he can roll back to the right. This room is backwards, and it takes a minute to re-orient. Finally, he finds a small, silver alarm clock on a low table, the hands neatly aligned to the 10 and the 8.

Fuzzy from time zone jumps and inconsistent sleep, he stretches, trying to shake off the haze that clings to him. It's Sunday morning, he knows that much. The sky outside is dark – a dull gray shroud of clouds enveloping the city. In the next room, the water shuts off, and there's the softest whisper of a door sliding back into its pocket as Darcy exits the bathroom.

Last night, once Steve finished insisting that it was not okay for her to go home alone, they'd negotiated over who got the couch and who got the bed. They're both too stubborn to give in, forcing Steve to invoke years of well-honed diplomacy to work out a solution.

Rock, paper, scissors.

Darcy won, three to two.

Steve's acceptance far from graceful. The only thing that blunted the concession was the chance at an entire day together, uninterrupted.

It was that promise, along with the handful of little blue tablets, forced on him by Darcy, which finally pulled him down into sleep.

A soft tap at the door finally rouses Steve up, out of bed, the box springs squeaking as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"You awake?" she calls. The door muffles her voice, and he pictures her, head tipped to rest against the smooth wood, eyes slightly puffy and hair disheveled.

"Yeah."

"Hungry?"

Steve laughs, amused by the mundane question. "One thing you're gonna have to learn about me, Darcy, is that I'm _always_ hungry."

"You game for breakfast? I know a good spot."

It's so incredibly normal - breakfast with his girl. Somewhere during the course of the night, between dreams that he can't recall, Steve surfaced just long enough to register that thought. "Yeah, give me fifteen minutes?"

"Make it ten," she counters in a campy attempt at what people assume The Hulk sounds like. In fact, his diction is much clearer. "Darcy monster needs coffee."

"What Darcy wants, Darcy gets."

She laughs and says something too low for Steve to hear, followed by the rapid patter she runs down the hall. If he had to guess, Steve was almost sure she said 'I may hold you to that.'

**O-O**

It turns out that Darcy isn't exaggerating when she says she needs coffee. While not unpleasant, her energy level doesn't hit its normal threshold until well into a second cup. Steve files this away, along with the fact that she likes lox and chives on her bagel, but no tomatoes, because they're 'ooshy and just plain weird looking.'

With the last hanging pretense of identity stripped away, they're both free to talk without any boundaries, and the stories begin to flow. By the time they've bought breakfast and walked the four blocks to Central Park, Steve has crossed multiple questions off his list, including Darcy's last name (Lewis), where she grew up (Virginia, but she spent summers with her Great-Aunt Muriel in Georgetown) and that she's allergic to coconut, even though she loves the smell.

"Before all this," he says, pointing absently at his chest, "I was allergic to everything. Had asthma too. Spring was awful, especially when the cottonwood was in bloom."

"Dude, you grew up in Brooklyn. Where's there cottonwood?"

"It only takes a bit!" Steve protests. Their back and forth is refreshing, with none of the condescension or sarcasm, like the way Tony is always jabbing about the things he's missed, or how Natasha gives him that look, head tilted and eyebrow raised. With Darcy, the jokes are never malicious or belittling, but she never slips into blatant adulation like so many other people do. He's spent years watching how people interact, always jealous of the easy give and take that exists between those with obviously close affections. He can understand now what's so completely addictive about it.

"You have the geekiest laugh," she says, swinging her hip into his thigh. She's been trying to knock him off balance for blocks, but it would take a heck of a lot more momentum than her tiny frame to do that. He simply laughs again, and follows her under the wrought iron arch into the park.

They walk for a few hundred feet before veering off the paved path. The lower east side of the park is a series of low, rolling hills, dappled with trees for shade. It takes a few minutes for Darcy to find the perfect spot, stopping here and there before finally settling in underneath a cluster of maple trees.

"There," she says, "Safe if it rains, and not a cottonwood in sight."

"You're so good to me," Steve says, hoping it comes across as more dramatic than earnest. He rolls up his sleeves and eases himself down onto the grass while Darcy lays out their feast, first spreading napkins on the ground, then dumping the half dozen bagels they'd purchased on top. When she steals a sip of his coffee, Steve nudges her with his foot. She topples over, arms flailing more for production than for need.

"Way to be a gentleman, Cap," she moans. "Don't you get it? Coffee good, crabby Darcy bad."

It's the first time she's directly acknowledged his name – well his other name. He expected it to be awkward, but not this…the strange surge that fills his chest and warms his cheeks. There were times during the war when he'd experienced little blips of ego or pride, momentary affirmations that left his head spinning. But this is different. For the first time in what feels like ages, Steve finally feels _whole_.

It's only with that grounding that he has the courage to broach the remaining unanswered question. It the only one he's been afraid to ask.

"So tell the truth…" he says, eyes fixed on the cars that speed down Fifth Avenue. "When did you figure it out?"

Darcy pulls apart her bagel, scooping extra cream cheese from the wrapper and spreading it across a bare spot of bread. "Will you be mad if I tell you I always knew?"

Her delivery is casual, that Steve almost doubts her for a second, But then he thinks back on their interactions, searching for some little tell that he might have missed. In the end, he comes up blank.

"You never gave it away."

"What's there to give away?" Darcy counters. She's slowly picking apart her breakfast, tearing little strips of bagel free and smoothing out the cream cheese before layering slivers of lox over the top. "You have to remember, I went through all that hero craziness stuff with Jane and Thor. This isn't my first rodeo, you know."

"But even still-"

"It just didn't seem important," she says. "Besides, I kind of liked having something that was all my own, you know? Everyone knows Captain America, but how many people can say they actually know Steve?"

The remaining little knot of dread slowly breaks free, releasing Steve from the worry that has held him back for days.

"How many people can say they know Darcy?"

She laughs, shaking her head back and forth. A strand of hair lodges at the corner of her mouth, which she swats away with the back of her hand. "Jane would say she does, but then again, she was mighty pissed off at me the other night."

"Why?"

Darcy sits up, pulling her hair back from her face and twisting it around in a coil. Once the hair is tightly bound, she ties it in a sort of knot, low and tight at the base of her neck. "I think she was offended that I didn't tell her about….well, about you."

"And yet you still asked her for help?"

"She kind of busted me," Darcy admits. She's starting to work on the other side of her bagel, but Steve notices her edging closer to his coffee. "I may have been a little bit crabby, and I may have bitten her head off once or twice."

He lies back on the grass, his hands cradling the back of his head as he tries to imagine Darcy wandering around the lab, picking at every little thing until tiny little Jane Foster blew up. "That must have been something to see."

"Jane pissed off is _not_ a pretty thing. She'll go toe to toe with anyone, and she knows just exactly how to get under your skin. She went all girly on me, cracking out the guilt card and going the whole _I thought we were friends_ route," Darcy is talking faster now, her free hand waving in the air. "I mean, what am I supposed to say? Hey Jane, I met this _really awesome_ guy, and guess what, he's Captain America! That's old hat to the astrophysicist with the God of Thunder for a boyfriend."

She plows ahead, talking so fast that she can't stop to take a breath. "She's actually the one that gave me the tablet idea. She and Bruce helped me pull it all together, but Bruce was a lot easier to convince. He's a big softie, you know? On the other hand, I think Jane just wants to extract her pound of flesh for being left in the dark."

The wind picks up, ruffling the canopy of leaves above them. Steve stares up at the branches, marveling at just how everything that seemed to be such a worry days ago was really nothing consequential at all.

"What are you grinning about, Rogers?" Darcy demands. Her names for him are constantly flexing now, Steve, Cap, Rogers…it's all mixing together in his mind along with her admissions, becoming this infectious, ridiculous sort of. It's not very masculine, nor is it very Cap like, but he doesn't care.

"You said I'm awesome." His smile is growing, stretching wide enough to make the bruised skin under his eye ache, but he can't stop.

"Modest much?"

"Actually," he says, breaking into a full on grin, "I think the actual was _really awesome_."

Darcy drops the remainder of her bagel on the wrapper and wipes her hands on a napkin. "Remember how I mentioned my crazy Great-Aunt Muriel?"

"The one that taught you how to pick a lock so you wouldn't get stuck in her third floor bathroom?"

"Yep. You would have liked her, she's all piss and vinegar. But oh man, how she would have loved you. She has a thing for cheeks -" Darcy pinches the skin, just to the left of his mouth, gently between her thumb and forefinger. "She'd start up here, until she got to know you, then the other set would be at risk."

"I'd say she sounds like a character," Steve catches Darcy's wrist. It's surreal, almost disembodied experience as he lets his instincts take over. "But more importantly, I'd say the apple probably doesn't fall far from the tree."

A long time ago, Bucky told him to stop thinking and start acting. It's easier said than done, or maybe it was simple as Steve lacking the courage to make a leap of faith. He'd like to think that somewhere, Bucky is nodding his head in approval as the lesson finally sinks in.

All it takes is one small tug, and Darcy's there, close enough to bump noses. A slight elevation of his head, shoulders barely off the ground, and he's kissing her.

More importantly, she's kissing him back. Her free hand is warm against his chest.

When he releases her wrist, she doesn't pull away. Instead, she flattens her palm against his check, her fingers skimming just below the bruises that are slowly turning an angry shade of purple.

"May I?" she asks, and kisses his cheek gently. Overhead, the wind picks up again, and down the hill, a child squeals, a mixture of terror and laughter as the sky opens up, releasing the rain that has been threatening for hours.

When she sits up, Darcy is smiling, but it's different, shy and soft. "Come on," Steve says. He doesn't want to leave, but the rain is coming down harder, followed by the distant rumble of thunder. "Let's get you home. Can't leave my girl out in the rain, can I?"

They half walk, half run back to Stark Tower, hand in hand, completely oblivious to the murmurs of "hey, that's Cap," as they rush by.


	5. Chapter 5

Seven months have passed since a research team found Steve under the ice in Greenland. August brought him his first real interaction with the world, but the focus was on chasing the Tesseract, not interpersonal interactions.

He's spent close to five months floating through a meager existence, more uncomfortable in his skin than when he was a hundred pound weakling.

Thinking back on it, he remembers the first days after his transformation as surreal – the world transformed because of his sheer size and strength. It had taken weeks not to move too fast or pull too hard, making even the most mundane interactions scary and exhilarating.

Steve still remembers that strange mix of fear and magic, of how people looked at him differently. He's _never_ admitted that he noticed the adulation, and even worse, that there were moments where he even enjoyed it. The high of being wanted, of being admired can be a temptation to even the humblest person – but he's always fought hard to embody what Dr. Erskine saw him.

_To be a good man._

But Steve is beginning to realize that his wartime experiences, while poignant and transformative, are not enough to bridge the gap. Both before and after, he is a man apart, isolated from all the normal, everyday interactions that people have.

He's killed people, saved lives, even died, but he's never really lived, it would seem, at least not the way most people define it.

"How old are you again?"

Steve's staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, gently probing gently at the small, oblong mark just below his left collarbone. The skin there is damp, moisture from his sweat and Darcy's kisses.

"That's a loaded question, Miss Lewis."

"Subtract the chill time, how old _are_ you?"

The mark is mesmerizing, the tip lighter than the wine colored center. His nail grazes sensitive spot, shooting a mixture of pain and delicious energy through his body.

Longing is not a foreign concept to Steve – he's spent years nursing that dull ache in his chest, watching and wanting but never being able to have. He came close with Peggy Carter, cultivating the warm flicker of hope, but it was merely that, a flicker. With Darcy, the longing lives somewhere deeper inside, burning so hot that there are times where she's all that exists.

"Twenty-seven," he mumbles, still fascinated by the welt on his body…the welt that Darcy made. She's behind him, back pressed up against the light blue bathroom wall. Her hair is mussed, lips swollen, and t-shirt slightly askew. Unlike him, she never rights the damage wrought by hands or mouth. There wouldn't be much point when they're alone - it's not like repairs last for long.

"Twenty-seven is a bit old for your first hickey…." Her teeth scrape across her bottom lip, skin puckering as she flashes a Cheshire cat grin. "Maybe I should give you one more."

Steve tips his head to the right, eyes narrowing. It's more promise than anything, but it provokes the reaction he's hoping for: Darcy squeals, her laughter trailing after as she bolts from the bathroom. They've played this cat and mouse game before – and she knows it's a game he'll always win.

He catches Darcy in the hallway, using his body to back her up against the wall. With hands bracketed on either side of her head, Steve has her boxed in, but he's just as exposed as she is. When they stand close like this, Steve's a giant, towering so far over her that Darcy has to tilt her head back just to make eye contact. Of all the highs that come from being around Darcy, this is one of the greatest, because it mixes that look of adulation that he's suffered for so long with so many other things. Hope, affection, and lately…well, lately, something more.

Before Steve can pull back or begin to question, she twists his shirt into a knot, pulling him back in and Steve can't think – he doesn't want to. All he knows is the warmth of her body and the vibrations that ripple through both of them, little hmms and sighs that speak volumes.

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers?" the computerized voice issues from a small panel beside the door. It would be an acceptable volume from across the room, but the speaker is just a foot away. "You are needed upstairs, sir."

Steve sighs, his head tipped against Darcy's for support. Her breath is coming in labored gasps, her hand still twisted up in his shirt, which is now a wrinkled mess.

"I'm going to dump water in that thing," she mumbles, her gaze fixed on his mouth. "Cold water is better put to use on that damn machine."

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, letting his training attempt to force out the visuals. _Be a soldier…follow orders_…the commands echoes through his head, jumbling together with the softer sounds that he doesn't want to leave.

"I'm sorry," mumbles. The apology is as much for him as it is for her. Steve's living so many different realities, and it feels like they all converge at the wrong time, constantly pulling at him. He wonders which will come first, splitting or breaking.

"It's okay," Darcy whispers. "I probably need to get downstairs, anyway. Work to do and all that."

But it's not okay, Steve wants to shout. They should be able to walk away, to live some level of normal with the expectation of privacy. He sighs and extends his arms, forcing distance between their bodies. Darcy gently secures the top two buttons of his shirt, covering the small red welt where everything began. Then she gently combs her fingers through his hair, trying to right the havoc.

"Go," she prompts him. "This will keep."

**O-O**

An image hovers over the large round table, twisting and turning under the force of Tony Stark's will. While he manipulates the image, flicking the figure around in circles to find points of weakness, Steve claims a spot at the table. He ignores the smiles from Barton and Dr. Banner, focusing instead on Natasha and the papers spread out in front of her.

She glances up at him, her eyes slowly drifting from his eyes downward. There's the slightest shift, a small quirk in her eyebrow, but then she's unreadable again, and everyone at the table is looking at him, waiting.

"Situation?"

Tony pauses, his hands hovering in the air. Natasha shoots him a look, icy cold and pointed. A sheet of paper slides across the table before anyone can say another word.

"Extensive radiation coming off the building," she's clipped and efficient, her focus exclusively on the task at hand. "The signature is consistent with the HYDRA weapons recovered in Europe."

What she omits hovers in the air around them – recovered after the plane went down, after you died. A photo follows the same path across the table, but Steve doesn't need to look - the image burned in his mind years ago.

"What are our orders?"

"Vini Vidi Vici." Tony is facing the image again, his fingers teasing out a grid over the lower left quadrant of the building. "There's an entrance from the metro here. If I come up through, I can take out…"

"Hold up," Steve barks. He's half out of his seat, hands flat on the table. "We're not going in until we know what it is we're up against. The only way to-"

Tony doesn't turn to face him, continuing to turn the image and highlight areas. "Testy testy. One would think that you finally getting to first base would take the edge off. Oh well," he turns so that his back is to Steve. "That's what I get for rooting for the home team."

"Tony…" Dr. Banner leans forward, his arms resting wearily on the table. "I think the point Steve was trying to make-"

"Is that I'm a Prima Donna who can't slow down and think. Or, wait-" he turns to face the table, the blue glow of the arc reactor shining cold and bright through the dark cloth of his shirt. "Can men be Prima Donnas?"

"No," Steve says, keeping his voice level. Tony's showboating, trying to make this about him. There's a time and place for his brilliance, but Steve knows that this 'look at me' act is the best way to fail. "You can't go in guns blazing alone. People could get hurt - "

"And if we don't go in guns blazing, we'll get our asses kicked because they're sure as hell going to dish it back," Tony spins to face him, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn't have a care in the world, "We hesitate, and people will _die_."

They glare at each other over the table, neither willing to cede ground.

Barton is the one to break the ice.

"Can't go in without a look," he says. "We don't know what outside defenses are in place. There might be traps, human shields…." He flips a pencil over, tip to table, then eraser, repeatedly. "Drop me in and give me a view. We can call the ball after that."

Steve glares across the table, waiting for Stark to make the first move.

"Wheels up in forty-five," he says sharply. Tony's shoulders buck back, the silent laugh pouring out like gas on embers that were already hot before Steve ever entered the room. He's up and out of his chair, sliding across the table to avoid a stiff arm Natasha or a horse collar from Barton. The cotton of Stark's shirt bunches up in his grip, and for just the briefest second, Steve recalls how Darcy held onto him the same way.

He forces it out of his head, his attention narrowing in to focus exclusively on the man in front of him.

"This will be a group effort, Stark." Steve's voice is dangerously low, and the shift from first name to surname hints at the severity of anger underneath. "We work together or you sit this one out."

Face to face, Steve a good five inches taller than his agitator. The last time there was a conflict, outside forces mandated a détente. This time, there would be no one to step in and break things up.

"You need to take down a notch or six, Cap," Tony sneers up at him. "Or your frustration will get us all killed."

Steve glowers at him for a long moment, the anger and resentment roaring through his body.

"Roof in forty-five," he barks again, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

"We've got snipers up top." Barton's voice echoes through the comm. "Southwest and Northwest corner rooftops, plus cameras watching the alley. If you're coming up from under, you need to start farther back."

The team has split off, Natasha and Dr. Banner waiting for the signal to go in the front door under air coverage. Tony and Steve are four blocks away, sheltered in a dark alley while Barton scans from his perch. The teaming was logical, but the co-existence out of necessity, not preference. They are the strongest, after all, the most in control. Besides, Natasha has influence over The Hulk, a level of understanding, maybe even empathy, which they can't bridge. If things get too out of control, she'll be the only one who can help him pull back.

"Options?" Steve prompts. He's painfully aware of Tony behind him, the Iron Man suit hiding all physical cues or reactions. It also gives him enough strength to be a formidable adversary, especially if Tony does decide to invoke his own rules of engagement, which really aren't rules at all, just him and his gut.

"I can take out the snipers from up here – "

"Video's mine," Tony cuts in. The silence that follows is deafening, the rest of the team excluded from the technological wrangling that Tony executes with JARVIS.

"Natasha?"

"Yeah, Cap."

They need to be ready to move, with or without Tony and his armor. Who or whatever has taken over the building has some serious firepower, and a number of hostages. They need to cut them off and extract the innocent bystanders before things get out of hand.

"We're going in from underneath once the way is clear," Steve is calling out the orders, visualizing the map and infrared scans. "You're on point to get everyone out. Have The Hulk clear the front, then get them out as fast as you can."

"How did I end up the offensive line?" Dr. Banner's voice echoes across the comm. "I hate football."

"I'll buy you underwater basket weaving classes when we get back, Doc," Tony is back. "Video going to loop in two minutes. They'll be blind as bats, Hawkeye, so you can Robin Hood to your heart's content."

"Just say when." There's a blast of static, then silence. They're alone in the alley again, surrounded by dumpsters and other cast offs. In a way, Steve finds the location appropriate. Natasha once called them the island of misfit toys, and here amongst the castoffs, he can almost believe it.

"This is where you tell me I'm right, you know," Tony says. He's standing at the ready, arms bent, eyes and arc reactor glowing. It's hard for Steve reconcile this man with his father, Howard – they're so alike and yet so different, the son so much more cynical than his father.

"About the weakness, yes," Steve agrees. He remembers Howard, handing him the shield that changed so many things, and the fact that he refused to give up on Steve, even after the plane went down. "But not about busting in. We have to put those people first."

Tony turns, surprisingly agile in the suit.

"Why do you care so much?" he demands. "Why can't you be a selfish prick like the rest of us? What makes you so god damn special?"

"Absolutely nothing." His reply is automatic. Tony takes a step back, as if knocked off balance. "Nothing at all."

The alley is quiet - the only sound the hum of traffic blocks away. It reminds Steve of better things, like the subtle hum of traffic from the balcony, and the way Darcy's hair would catch in the wind when she laughs at one of his bad jokes. The people caught in there might be someone's Darcy, and he needs to get them out.

"Video's down," Tony says. "All yours, Birdman."

He turns, metal boots clanging against the pavement. One gauntlet closes around the handle, and with one tug, the heavy metal door rips away. Tony drops the door like a discarded toy and launches into the darkness.

"I was force fed your mythology growing up," his voice echoes through the comm It's all that's left as the glow of the arc reactor fades into the dark. "All that humility and sacrifice came across as a load of crap, a way for my father to show me up. I lived with it for years from him; I don't want it from you, too."

Steve waits until all that's left is the clanging of boots before following. He, above all people, understands what it's like to never be enough. Maybe he and Tony aren't that different, he wonders. Maybe they just came at the same point from different ends of the spectrum, is all.

**O-O**

When Howard Stark designed the shield that would become a national icon, he merely thought he was developing a tool for his friend, a mechanism designed to keep Steve safe. It quickly evolved, turning into more of an offensive resource than a defensive one.

Steve has a momentary flash of Howard as he lets the shield fly, remembering just how animated the older Stark became when explaining vibranium, the shocked look on the man's face when Peggy let loose a series of bullets to test both is and the shield's strength. None of them could have known that years later, this exact shield would save his son's life.

It's almost as if they're all there, all the people who guided him, helped Steve become what he is today, guiding the disk as it flies towards its target.

The memory disappears as fast as it's there, Steve's focus back on the final target. The hit is enough to take down the shooter, but a blast of bright blue energy is already off. It catches Tony in the shoulder, hurtling him backwards through the wall, his suit ripping through concreted like a baseball through wet paper.

"Clear!" Natasha's voice echoes through the comm. She's winded, and there are shrieks and shouting in the background. "The front is all clear!"

Dust is thick around him, the flashing emergency lights illuminating a pile of rubble stacked to the ceiling. There's a low, dull roar as a concrete wall gives way, showering huge chunks of stone and iron onto a motionless Tony. Steve coughs, and drops his shield so that he can dig them an out. Only one bright red foot is visible. It's turned hard to the right, motionless.

"I need Hulk!" Steve shouts. He's ripping chunks of concrete and steel free, but it's not fast enough. "Tony's down! I need help!"

He's digging as fast as he can, not just for Howard, but for Tony, too. No one should have to live with a legend that isn't their own. He understands that now, the resentment that has fueled Tony forward for so long, all the snipes and cheap shots, they weren't about Steve, they were all Tony and Howard, and Steve was the easiest way to let out that resentment. He keeps digging, swearing to himself that when Tony is free, he'll tell him stories about Howard that will make it all different. He'll make Tony understand that it was never about him, it was about a cause, a reason to believe that there was…still is some good left in the world.

"Come on, damn you," he demands, his breath coming heavy and fast. "Don't you quit on me now."

He has part of Tony's leg free, along with an arm up to the elbow. Steve grabs ankle and wrist, digging his feet into the rocks at the base of the pile and jerking for all he's worth. The metal groans, grinding against rocks and girders, but it's not enough to break Tony free.

A big green hand pushes Steve to the side, one hand wrapping around Tony's ankle the way a child would grasp a toy. Steve pushes his cowl back, his comm useless when the one person he wants to hear is unresponsive.

"Not too hard," Steve reminds The Hulk. "On the count of three. One…two…three!"

Metal shrieks again, chunks of concrete tumbling free as they pull Tony out from under the pile. The arc reactor glows weakly in the gloomy basement. After what feels like ages, but Steve knows is only a moment or two, the mask retracts to reveal Tony's face. There's a deep cut over his right eye, and his nose is bleeding, but the smile is the same.

"I told you people were going to get hurt," Tony says slowly.

Steve grasps him by the wrist again, gently pulling Tony to his feet. "And a Stark was in the thick of it," he teases. "Some things will never change."

The expression on Tony Stark's face is something he can't describe, and will no doubt struggle to do so for the rest of his life. Sadness, awe, innocence, maybe even hope. He's a good ten years older than Howard had been Steve worked with, but in some ways he's so much younger. Steve wants to tell Tony that his dad would be proud, but it doesn't feel right. Maybe someday he'll be able to express it without alienating the younger Stark. For now, maybe working together and doing this is enough.

He hangs back, watching as Tony follows The Hulk out of the basement. He's back to his old form, joking about buying a lifetime supply of big green and ugly men's jorts, and if that shade is Wicked Witch of the West or Emerald City green. The others are probably listening in on the comm, laughing and providing their own commentary, and Steve laughs along with them, but the moment triggers something deeper, more visceral in him. It's a sense of belonging, something that he's not experienced in a very long time.

**O-O**

The flight back is uneventful, allowing Steve to slip off into his thoughts. The comment Tony made about nobility and selfishness hit a mark, and he can't seem to let it go. All the anger, all the frustration over the things he's lost now feel petty, like a lost toy that he's too petulant to let go of. Bucky, Peggy, his life, even the men he fought with, they're all gone, but he's not. Somehow, he's earned a second chance, and it's more than just the opportunity to save the world. He can have a life, filled with so many things that he never knew to wish for - but only if he lets go.

He's been holding on to the past, to everything he knew and loved, but it's not because he's noble. It's because he's selfish, and maybe a bit scared, too. He didn't realize until now, though, how much that fear has been holding him back.

Tony's leaning back in one of the jump seats, his eyes closed. Natasha has finally stopped hovering over him, turning her attention to the cockpit and a series of rather crude exchanges between Barton and Dr. Banner. With all the attention shifted to the front of the plane, Steve decides to jump, and hope that his risk is worth it.

"Hey Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"There are some people I need to find." He can still see their faces. Dum Dum, Gabe, Morita. Even Colonel Phillips, glowering up at him from behind a field desk. "Any idea how I go about doing that?"

Tony smiles, his eyes still closed. "Write them down. When we get back, I'll have JARVIS run a check. You going to see some old-"

"What the hell?" The Quinjet banks sharply to the right, and Natasha is up out of her seat, eyes wide. "You guys need to get up here, stat."

"Kinda hard to move right now, concussed," Tony says. "Call back later."

Steve stands, wrapping one hand around the overhead support as he leans into the cockpit. Stark Tower is a blur of color, blue and red flashing lights streaking up the mirrored glass surface before dropping off into nothingness. One floor of the tower blown open, papers drifting lazily off the ledge into nothingness.

"That's seventy-four," Natasha says. "That is…" she hesitates, her eyes still scanning the destruction. "That was Jane Foster's lab."


	7. Chapter 7

The Quinjet is still feet above the helipad when Steve launches himself off the ramp, tucking into a roll to absorb the impact of his landing. He's back up on his feet just as fast, sprinting toward the elevator that will take him down to the lab.

"Disabled," Tony shouts from behind him. "Stairs. I'll meet you down there."

He's only vaguely conscious that the others are right behind him, each one firing off questions and demands for information from SHIELD, from security, from anyone who can tell them what the hell has happened. There's talk of a bridge and testing and Dr. Banner is cursing Jane for being too impatient to wait. None of them gets in Steve's way, nor do they question the path he carves, kicking doors out of his way and jumping over railings to speed the descent.

It takes two sharp kicks to dislodge the fire door to seventy-four. It careens out into empty space, finally catching on an exposed metal girder. Everything is gone – the tables and computers that once littered the floor, the giant white boards covered in gibberish. It's like a bomb exploded, blasting everything out into nothingness. The only things left behind are shattered light fixtures and cables, which shower electricity over scarred concrete and shattered glass.

"What the hell happened?" Natasha murmurs. She's seen so much, and yet even from her, the shock is so sharp, so real. This is their home, not just a random location.

"Three frost giants." A familiar figure appears from behind one of the beams, his crimson cape billowing in the wind.

"She did it," Dr. Banner mutters. "She actually opened up the bridge."

Thor walks slowly toward them, his hammer dangling from the leather strap at his wrist. There's blood and gore splattered across the front of his breastplate.

"Aye," he says. "But it came through the Jotunheim first." He kicks an object across the floor - a single arm, dark blue and streaked with blood. "The frost giants came into this world. I severed the connection to prevent them from overrunning us all. That explosion is what caused this damage."

Steve walks slowly around the floor, taking it all in. There are spatters of blood everywhere, on the floor, on what remains of walls, even the ceiling.

"Who was hurt?" he demands. It's all crashing in on him faster than he can process. Giants, the carnage, the wind whipping through the smashed windows and not a person in sight. "Where's Darcy?"

Thor turns absently, his eyes out of focus. It's like he's seeing the destruction for the first time - or maybe he's simply seeing it like everyone else is. "There were men here, they carried away the bodies. Eric aided the others…"

Steve catches the man by his breastplate, jerking him forward. They are nose to nose, but Thor does not fight back.

"Where is Darcy?" Steve demands.

"I don't know."

**O-O**

It takes an hour for him to find her. She's not in the makeshift infirmary on the ground floor, and she's not in his apartment. Eric Selvig recalls seeing her before the bridge opened, but everything after was pure chaos.

With nowhere else to check, Steve runs back up eighty-nine flights of steps, praying and negotiating with God the entire way. He can't lose this, not when he's just starting to figure it all out. Life can't be that cruel twice.

The fire door is ajar, and the breeze hits Steve the minute he rounds the corner. Unlike before, there's no music, no laughter, just the sound of the traffic drifting up from below. He doesn't see Darcy until he's almost on top of her. She's a tiny ball, curled up on the floor with her knees hugged tightly against her chest. She was wearing white this morning, but it's all red now, spots so dark they're almost black. He doesn't know if it's her blood or someone else's, and he can't move fast enough to get to her.

"Hey there," Steve says softly. He's never known fear like this before. He's been injected with a mystery serum, shot at, crashed a plane into the arctic, but nothing compares to the terror of not knowing where Darcy is or how to reach her.

Steve eases himself down onto the floor, reaching one hand out tentatively to push the hair away from her face. His gauntlet comes away bloody, and he's immediately in tactical mode, scanning to identify the source of the wound, or if it's even hers. "You okay?"

When she doesn't respond, Steve slowly edges closer, spreading his legs so that he can slip in behind her, pressing his chest against Darcy's back. She's shaking violently, a convulsive shudder that won't stop.

"Shhh," Steve props his chin against her shoulder, his arms draping loosely around her body. "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Her shoulders lift and fall, breathing shallow. Steve lets his instinct take over, rocking slowly, side to side, the way his mother did when he was little and caught up in an asthma attack. He's never realized just how small Darcy is, how fragile, even with all the bravado and devil may care grins. There's a strange, visceral urge bubbling up through him, the need to be the one to take care of her, to make everything better.

For once, it's not saving the world, it's just being there for Darcy. It could be enough from here on out, and Steve would be perfectly happy with that.

When the shaking subsides, Steve scoots back, one arm slipping gently under her knees so that he can scoop her up off the floor. Darcy doesn't resist, her head nestling in under Steve's chin. He carries her toward the stairwell, pausing long enough to jab at one of the computerized panels near the elevator door.

"JARVIS, have Dr. Banner meet me in my apartment," he calls out. "Tell him to bring a medical kit - I need him to take a look at Darcy."

**O-O**

"You're making me nervous."

Steve pauses at the edge of the doorway. He's been pacing back and forth, pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger while fighting the urge to hover over the examination. "Sorry, Dr. Banner."

"Bruce," the man corrects him. He's perched on the edge of the coffee table, face to face with Darcy. She's stopped shaking, but she still hasn't said a word. "You don't have to use the honorarium when you've seen me naked. Now please stop pacing, okay? The other guy doesn't like it."

He's using cotton gauze to clean Darcy's face, revealing a series of shallow cuts along her hairline. A deep, angry red welt is developing along her cheekbone, which will be purple tomorrow. There's a deep cut in her arm, just below the shoulder. Bruce has already extracted the sliver of glass embedded there, securing the gash together with strips of surgical tape.

"I think you can get away without stitches," he says as he strips off a pair of sterile gloves. "Just keep an eye on it, okay? I'd leave you something to help sleep, but they keep me away from all the good stuff."

He tosses the glove into a large plastic box, along with the discarded, bloody gauze, his manner more like a physician than a researcher. It's hard for Steve to reconcile the gentle, thoughtful man with the great green beast who can level a city block, which humbles Steve. Bruce doesn't _have_ to help him, none of the others do, and yet they freely give time and time again.

"Thank you," Steve says. He's useless and at odds with himself, not sure what to do next.

Bruce lays a gentle hand on Darcy's head, reminding Steve of the blessings the priests used to bestow on him when he was small. When Bruce stands, he nods toward the door, his shoes quiet against the hardwood.

"She's staying here, right?" He prompts. "I don't want her to be alone."

"She won't be," Steve promises. He hasn't thought about logistics beyond this point, but for some reason, it doesn't matter. "I'll take care of her."

Bruce has to reach up to clap a hand on Steve's shoulder, but his grip is still strong. "She'll be okay," he promises. "Call me if you need anything."

"Thank you," Steve says. It's a cheap payment, pennies where gold should be, but when Bruce smiles, he knows that it's enough. These are his friends, and this is what friends do.

When the door clicks shut, he moves slowly, exaggerating footsteps and making much more noise than normal, just to let Darcy know that he's there. When he's close enough, Steve kneels in front of her, one finger crooking under her chin to force her to look up from the floor. Her irises dark brown flecked with gold and amber.

"HI," he says. His voice feels too big, too loud. "I thought maybe, if I promised to be a complete gentleman, you might want to stay here tonight? If you give me a few minutes, I might even be able to find you something clean to change in to."

There's the smallest flutter of a smile – the corner of her mouth pulling up just the tiniest bit. "Do you mind if I take a shower?"

Her voice is so small and weak - it slams Steve in the chest, the pain cutting deep. He thought he'd hit rock bottom, searching and not being able to find her, but somehow this is worse, simply because it's the one thing he can't fix or make better.

"Come on," he says, standing and offering his hand. "All the hot water that Stark Towers can offer is yours."

They walk down the short hallway where, just hours before they'd been stood, giggling and kissing. The world has changed so much since then, and he knows there is nothing he can do to reclaim it. He leads Darcy into the bathroom, turning on the water in the shower and grabbing the discarded towels off the floor.

"Sorry," he apologizes. "I can be kind of a slob."

Darcy stands in front of the mirror, oblivious to the towels or anything else. One hand hovers near her chest, her fingers clutching and extending as if she doesn't know what to do.

"I can't put this over my face," she whispers. She looks up at Steve, eyes heartbreakingly wide. "I don't want it to touch me."

When her voice breaks, Steve knows he can fix this. He couldn't help her, not the way Bruce could, but he can do this.

"Turn around," Steve prompts. Darcy follows his instructions, her head bowed. He coils her hair, twisting it and draping it over her shoulder. With her neck exposed, he clasps the collar of her shirt in both hands. "Trust me, okay? I'm not going to hurt you."

When she nods, he moves quickly, looking up at the ceiling just before he jerks hard, ripping the ruined cotton cleanly in two, the sound and give of the fabric the only guidance he need.

"I'm going to go find you some clothes," he says, turning quickly back to the hallway. "Take as long as you need."

The door clicks shut behind him, and after a minute, the pattern of the water changes, clumps of water hitting the tile as Darcy begins to rinse herself clean. It's only then that he finally let's down, slumping against the wall in the hallway.

Too many potential losses, too fast, too close. He's not going to lose this, lose her.

Steve doesn't think twice, letting instinct take over. He peels off his bloody suit and stuffs it in a garbage bag. Darcy's ruined clothes will go in there too, once she's out of the shower. He drops his gauntlets in the bag, and after a minute, shoves his boots in there too. He wants it all gone. Whoever cleans this room will take care of the bag. He never wants to see any of it again.

With the clothes disposed of, Steve turns his attention to more important things, like finding something for Darcy to wear. It only takes a few minutes to riffle through everything he owns, turning up a pair of flannel pajama pants and a soft gray t-shirt. They will swamp Darcy's tiny frame, but it's the best he can find. He leaves the clothes folded in a neat stack outside the door, a weak offering, but the best one he can provide.

"Hey, Steve?" Her voice trails down the hallway. "Can I borrow something? My clothes are kinda toast."

"I left something by the door," he says, turning away so that she can open the door unobserved. "Are you hungry?"

It's late, and there's not much in the refrigerator. All she has to do is say the word and he'll arrange for heaven and earth to fall right in her lap, anything to bring a smile back to her face.

"Not unless you have a hunk of cookie dough in the refrigerator." The door creaks open again, and she's there in the doorway, drowning in his clothes, but pink, healthy, and whole.

"I don't have any, but I can figure out a way to get some if you want?"

"No." Without sleeves to fiddle with, she's left rolling the t-shirt hem between her hands, reinforcing just how tiny she is. "I-"

"It's okay," Steve prompts. "I can't do much more than burn water, but I can order something. You name it, and it's yours."

She continues to roll the shirt hem between her hands, but when she looks up, there's just the tiniest spark of _Darcy_, that mischievous grin that usually proceeds her 'taking a piss out of him,' as she likes to call it.

"You are so beautiful when you smile like that." His words, while heartfelt, are involuntary. Deep down, he's still the same old Steve, bumbling around women, even when he means well. There are other words there, bubbling on the surface, but he can't put them out there, not now….not yet.

Darcy turns away, her hair falling across her face to obscure the damage. "I…I" she stops, tipping her head back, as if she can't figure out what to say. A shake of her head, left, then right, and then she's in motion, hurtling toward Steve faster than he would've thought she could move. He catches her, not trusting words, just holding her close.

For the first time in his life, Steve doesn't second guess or question himself. He carries her into his room, placing her gently on the bed. It's not until she's tucked safely under the blankets that he crawls in beside her, curling up so close that her back is flat against his chest. They fall asleep this way, her fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding him close, even though he has no plan to leave.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve slips out of bed at nine. The air is shockingly cold after a night spent curled around Darcy's sleeping body. He hovers over her, ready to dive right back in if she wakes up. The bruises and cuts are darker this morning, but they appear to be the only visual residual damage. She rolls over and clutches his pillow to her chest, mumbling something, but does not wake.

He's still marveling at the odd mix of innocence and intimacy that comes with sleeping beside another person – the depth of comfort that derives purely from proximity. He assumed it would be awkward to share a bed - one person moving and waking the other, or fighting over covers, but after sleeping deeper than he has in years, Steve's ready to rethink that. He's ready to rethink a lot of things.

While the coffee brews, he loses himself in the mundane tasks – toasting a bagel, pouring milk into a glass. He'd like to have something more for Darcy when she wakes up, something amazing or completely ridiculous, like giant chocolate chip pancakes, but there's nothing but bread and cheese, and he doesn't want to leave her alone.

"Too bad I don't know how to make fondue," he says, finally able to laugh at the memory. "Bread and cheese, right?"

He's still laughing when he answers the soft tap at the door.

"Tony," He says by way of greeting. "Come on in."

"I borrowed some of Pepper's stuff." Tony pushes past Steve, forcing a large shopping bag on him. "I don't know if it will fit, I mean Pepper's…and Darcy's…" Tony's hands hover in front of his chest, fingers stretched wide. He considers their position for a moment, sliding them backwards and forwards to find the right approximation of size. "Well, let's just say you're a lucky man."

"Thank you," Steve says, diplomatically ignoring the pointed comparison of assets. Tony doesn't mean to be offensive, sometimes he can't help it. "She's still sleeping."

"Yeah," Tony looks around, as if he's trying to reconcile what he's heard with what he sees. "Bruce said she was pretty shaken up."

"Can you blame her?"

He walks over to the couch, scooping a book up off the end table and flipping through the pages. "Listen, I know what it's like when someone you love is pulled into this mess we live with. I'm not going to bullshit you and say it gets easier, but don't you dare freak out and think it's not worth it."

"It's not like that, I don't-"

"Love her?" Tony laughs and shakes his head. "Please, the way you came off that jet says otherwise. Prince Hamlet's lucky you didn't take his head off."

"I might have if things had turned out differently."

Tony turns abruptly, staring at Steve with an expression that's difficult to read. It might be surprise, or maybe curiosity. Either way, it's new, and mixed with something that feels an awful lot like respect.

"Anyway," Tony says, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I found the people you were looking for. Falsworth's in England, the others…well, they've all passed away. I'm sorry." He hesitates, head bobbing from side to side, clearly uncomfortable at passing on the news. "Morita's buried in California, everyone else is at Arlington."

Steve shakes the paper open, skimming the names, each one followed by a list of coordinates.

"Section markers," Tony explains. "Thought you might want to go pay your respects."

"Yeah," Steve mumbles. "Something like that."

They're all gone, except for Falsworth, who's too British to ever die. Morita and his clever remarks, Dum Dum and his over the top bravado, Gabe speaking flawless French and laughing like a fool – outside of Bucky, they were the only real friends he'd ever known.

They had to say goodbye to him, and now he can return the favor. Washington is only a few hours away.

"Take a few days off." Tony says with a smile. He smacks Steve on the arm and slowly backs toward the door. "I think after all these years you're owed some down time. The world isn't going to end if Cap takes a long weekend. I'll have the jet gassed up-"

Steve's still staring at the paper, the names blurring together so that their illegible.

"No," he says. "I need to do this the old fashioned way." He smiles as the pieces all fall together. "No, I'm going to do it the normal way."

"I guess that means no to the jet, then?"

They laugh, and Steve shakes his head. "Flying with one Stark was experience enough for me."

"Yeah, well, I got the looks _and_ the talent. If you need anything…"

"I'll be good. Thanks."

Tony studies him for a moment, his head cocked to the side. "I owe you, by the way," he says, "Dum Dum's real name was Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan. JARVIS made Pepper snarf her coffee."

He has the door open, ready to leave, but he stops as Steve calls after him. "When I get back, I'd like to tell you some stories about How-" he stops and takes a breath. "About your dad."

Tony smiles, and he could just as easily be a million miles away. They all have their baggage, and Steve finally realizes that Tony's no different.

"I'd like that," Tony says. He places to fingers against his brow in mock salute, and then he's gone, the door latching quietly behind him.

**O-O**

Darcy shuffles out of bed just before eleven, her face lined with creases and her eyes puffy. She's lost in his clothes, but he loves the way she looks. A small part of him protests, warning that this is all inappropriate, but Steve pushes it to the side. If it were wrong, it wouldn't feel like this.

"Hey, I was wondering when you were going to wake up." He drops a book hastily on the end table. "I've got coffee ready and-"

Darcy cuts him off, climbing up on to the couch and straight into his lap. She burrows her face into his shoulder, her hands clutching tightly to the front of his shirt. It's fiercely intimate, leaving Steve at a complete loss, his hands hovering awkwardly just above her hips. He's still so unsure of what's right or wrong, not just for this time but for him, and he doesn't want to do anything wrong. When nothing else comes to mind, he gives in and lets his hands fall naturally, coming to rest against the small of her back. He tips his head, resting his cheek against her hair. Darcy smells like him – his soap and his shampoo, and it's wrong and right all at the same time. The anger is building inside of him again, a possessive flare at the thought of anyone trying to hurt her. She's crawled in under his skin, taken over his clothes, and ruined sleeping alone for the rest of his life. Tony's right, there is no going back.

"Are you okay?" he asks. Darcy is a fighter, but she's also human. Whatever she witnessed the night before is so beyond the realm of normal for her, he can't begin to imagine how she must feel.

"Sore," she mumbles, her breath warm against his neck. "But it will go away."

"That's not what I meant."

She sighs, not so much a sound, just the heat against his neck and the motion of her body under his hands.

"Darcy," he leans to the side, trying to force his way into her line of site. "Look at me."

She tries to turn away, but Steve catches her chin gently, forcing her to look up at him. A lone tear escapes, trickling down her cheek.

"One blew up, right in front of me," she whispers as the tears fall faster. "_On me_. It knocked me backward through one of the glass dividers, and it was on top of me and I couldn't get free, and Thor had Jane, and Eric was trying to get people clear and-"

She stops, taking a deep gulp of air. "No one even knew I was there. No one _cared_."

Her whole body is shaking, and she's a scared little girl, clutching to the front of Steve's shirt for dear life. "The balcony was the only place I could think of. I just needed to be away. I needed – "

The tears are flowing so hard now that she can't speak, and it's tearing Steve in two. He understands now, the silence, the running, all of it. Darcy went to the only place that felt safe, the only place where she thought someone cared. In her own way, she ran to him.

"Let's get out of here," he says, trying to sound lighter than he feels. "I need to go to Washington, and I happen to know a girl who grew up there. Think she'll show me around?"

Darcy turns, her hair tickling his nose as she rests her ear against his heart.

"You don't have to babysit me," she says. Her voice is thick, the forced bravado a weak attempt to hide whatever is tearing her up underneath. "I'm going to be okay."

But she's not, and Steve knows it.

"I don't want to babysit you," he insists, his arms tighter around her now. "I want a couple days, just you and me. I want go see museums and just wander around and not have to worry about being anything other than just _us_."

He's omitting things, but it's not a lie. He does want to spend the time with her, to wander around hand in hand, to pull her into corners and kiss her until she laughs again. He wants to recapture that light-headed, blinding white high that comes when they're together. Most of all, he wants the rest of the world to go away, to give them a chance, even if it's just for a little while.

"Darcy, look at me."

When she does finally tilt her face up to his, it's with a small sigh that feels an awful lot like resignation. He can remember what that kind of fear feels like, gnawing away from the inside, so sharp that it hurts to breath. Catching her under the chin, he locks her in place, gently kissing the bruise on her cheek.

His next kiss is anything but gentle, but it's exactly what she needs and what he's been too scared to do. His fingers knot in her hair, tipping her head back so that, when he's done with her mouth, he can kiss her jaw, her throat, and then move back to her mouth again. When neither of them can breathe, he pulls back, forehead pressed against hers.

"That's for scaring me," he says, breathing heavy. "And if you think I want to babysit you, then you don't know me at all."

Darcy scrapes her teeth across her lower lip. Her cheeks are blotchy and eyes red, but she doesn't turn away. It's a small victory.

"Let's get out of here," he says again, this time with more conviction. "I want you to show me your world, Darcy Lewis. You've had more than enough of mine."

She gives him a weak smile. "Only if I get to keep these pants. I don't think my Aunt Muriel will approve of us sleeping in the same bed, and if I can't have you with me, I can pretend."

"You're Aunt Muriel?"

She smiles this time, and it's real.

"Yeah, if we're going to DC, I might as well introduce the two best things in my life, right, Sweet cheeks?" She presses her hand flat against Steve's face, frowning just the tiniest bit. "Now, I don't think what you did before sank in. Can you kiss me like that again? Maybe flip me back on the couch, cause…"

They both laugh as they tumble backwards, and for a little while, manage to turn back time, even if the lessons learned in between are not forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

They drive south, top down on their borrowed car. Darcy's face is obscured by a ridiculous pair of black sunglasses that cover half her face, but she's smiling as she sings along to the radio, making up words to the parts she doesn't know. Steve is in the passenger seat, back reclined far enough for him tilt his face up to catch the sun. With them both hidden behind sunglasses and the wind whipping at their hair, Steve likes to think they look like any other couple, getting away for a week of R and R.

They're well into their second round of twenty questions when the traffic slows to a crawl just outside of Washington.

"Favorite cookie," Darcy demands as she downshifts. Steve wanted to drive, but she insisted on another round of rock, paper, scissors.

"Snickerdoodle. Cat or dog?"

She smiles and shakes her head, freeing a strand of hair caught at the corner of her mouth. "Just wait and see. Middle name?"

"Grant. What's….that?"

Steve leans forward in the seat, his hands bracing on the dash. There's a large box truck in front of them, the silver silhouette on the mud flaps shining in the afternoon sun. It's a woman, etched in profile, chest extended, long stretched out provocatively. From the sharpness of the lines and the angle of her body, it's readily apparent that the woman is naked.

"That, my friend, is someone's idea of being clever," Darcy says. She flicks the blinker and sharply angles the car into the right lane, pulling around the offensive vehicle. "Does seeing stuff like that bug you?"

Steve sits back, tugging at the crease in his khakis to smooth out the wrinkles while he tries to frame out a logical response. "It's hard to explain," he admits. "Things are so different from what I'm used to. Stuff like that…" he tips his head back toward the truck, "and the way some people dress, it's just…I don't know."

"Has anything I've worn ever bugged you?" Darcy's grasps the steering wheel, her eyes on the road. "Not a trick question, I really want to know."

"Well, I did think you were really cute in my clothes."

"Ha ha, funny. Answer the question, Steven Grant."

He laughs, turning to face back up to the sun. "I guess it's hard to get used to how much easier things are, if that makes sense. Everything is so much more informal now – relationships, clothes, communications, language. I think that all the informality cheapens things a little bit, maybe makes the important things seem more disposable, if that makes sense."

They're crawling through traffic, the sign up ahead of them announcing the exit for Columbia Pike. Washington is only five hours south of Manhattan, but everything feels so different here, the sprawl of green so much less imposing than the towering skyscrapers and constant crush of people.

Darcy slowly drifts to the right, slipping in between two black sedans, their windows tinted so that it's impossible to see in "I don't know," she says. Her hair has fallen back down into her face, blocking out his view. "I grew up with formal, and I can't say it's anything I long for. Maybe it's one of those things - you always want the opposite of what you have."

"Okay," he says, deciding to play along with Darcy's logic. "I'll believe it if you can prove it. Tell me what you long for?"

They're off the highway now, following a broad street past shops and schools. The trees are just starting to change color, and seasonal decorations pop up here and there. Cornstalks bound around light poles with ribbon, clusters of mums adding splashes of bright gold and orange.

"We're being honest, right?" she prompts.

"Aren't we always, Miss Lewis?"

"No judging based on depth of answer, that sort of thing?"

"You're stalling."

Ahead the light changes from yellow to red. Darcy eases the car to a stop, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

"What do I long for?" she says, drawing out the words. "Probably nothing crazier than the average person. Egg bagels and good Lox when I'm not in New York. Old Ebbit's double dipped wings when I'm not in Washington. Someone to love me and accept me unconditionally, bad singing and all." She hesitates for a split second, then tosses her hair back out of her face. "And maybe some other things that involve you and would embarrass us both too much to admit."

The light changes, and Darcy steps on the accelerator, launching them forward with a squeal of rubber on pavement.

They drive on in silence, Steve watching out the window as the buildings change, growing taller and closer together. He's picking apart her comment about being loved and accepted unconditionally, trying to reconcile that with other pieces that hang out there, unresolved.

When they make the turn onto L Street, there's an explosion of color, tall trees in crimson, gold and dark umber fronting neat row houses with glossy black doors.

"I can see why you love it here," he says. Darcy flicks on the blinker, slowly slipping the car into an open spot at the curb.

"Home sweet home," she says, leaning forward to look up through windshield. "Or at least the closest thing to it."

They park next to a tall brick townhouse with black shutters and white trim that is classically American. It dominates the corner of the street in the sort of understated elegance that comes with old money.

"When you said your aunt lived in Georgetown, I was kind of picturing a walk up or something," Steve says. "Not this."

He's often joked about 'just being a kid from Brooklyn,' but he's never felt it like this. The apartment building he grew up in wasn't much larger, and they'd only occupied one-half of a floor.

Darcy shrugs and climbs out of the car, dragging her bag behind her. "It's just a house."

"Yeah, and I'm just a regular guy," Steve mumbles. He follows Darcy's lead, grabbing his duffle and garment bag out of the backseat. She's already up the front steps, punching a code in the keypad before he's halfway up the walk.

"Heckle! Jekyll! Come!" Darcy shouts as she shoves open the door.

Two giant black forms come bolting out of the house, streaking past Darcy and looping around Steve, all wagging tails and prancing paws. She's on her knees, arms outstretched as the dogs jostle each other to get close, bestowing sloppy wet kisses and little whines of happiness.

"There's my guys," she coos, scratching each of the dogs behind an ear. "Steve Rogers, meet the boys. The little guy is Heckle, and this big oaf is Jekyll."

She stands, rubbing her face against her shoulder to wipe away the sloppy kisses. "Boys, this is Steve. You be nice okay? No crotch sniffing, no shoe chewing, and absolutely no goosing."

The dogs prance around him, their heads just at the right level to follow through on each and every threat. Steve strokes the smaller one, surprised at how soft the dog's fur is. "Are these yours or your aunts?"

"Muriel's." Darcy's halfway up the long flight of steps that flanks the center hall. "She has a weakness for Newfoundlands, but I like to pretend their mine. Come on, we're up here."

They climb two sets of steps, the dogs trotting happily behind them. Steve tries not to get caught up by his surroundings, the walls covered in small watercolors and sketches, each one more amazing than the next. It's like wandering through a museum, but there's no one to yell at him if he gets to close or bumps a frame.

"This is your room." Darcy turns down a hallway on the third floor, leading him to the front of the house. "Huh, looks like she's redecorated again."

Heavy, dark wood furniture dominates the room, all clean lines and glossy surfaces. The linens and rugs are simple, medium blue, not far off the color of the summer sky. More drawings line the walls – studies of buildings and other architectural details, all perfectly rendered and suited to the rest of the decor.

"The bathroom is through there," Darcy points to a door standing open in the far corner. "I'm just going to go grab you some towels, give me a sec, okay?"

Heckle and Jekyll follow her out of the room, their nails tapping out a lighthearted rhythm on the pine floor.

Steve drops his stuff on the bed, then slowly wanders around the room, studying the details. In addition to the drawings, there are a number of different large chunks of petrified wood and rock, all situated for impact. Leather books and small brass instruments dot the shelves, along with a single photo of an older man and a very young Darcy, hands clutched as they spin in a circle. It's the only remotely personal object in the room; everything else is for effect, not to tell a story.

"There's a valet in the corner if you want to hang up what's in your bag," Darcy calls from down the hall. "And the drawers in the bureau should be empty."

One of the dog trots back into the bedroom, dropping his huge, shaggy head on the edge of the bed. Steve kneels down to eye level, allowing the dog sniff his face and chest. The access earns him a sloppy lick to the ear.

"I can see why you're a dog person," he says, scratching the dog under the chin. "These guys are pretty great."

"Unconditional love and affection." She carries a stack of towels across the room, disappearing into the bathroom. "And a constant source of heat."

"Kind of like me, huh?"

She's quiet for a moment, and Steve begins to think his comment went unheard.

"No, you're more complex than that."

Steve crooks his index finger, using his knuckle to stroke the dog's ear. It earns a round of noises, low chuffs that he takes as praise.

"I may be, but I'm just as warm as they are, and I might love you more," he says softly.

There's a click in the bathroom, a medicine cabinet or a door gently closing. Steve turns back to the bed and slowly unzips the garment bag. It's not his uniform, but it's an exact copy, medals and all. It's been hanging in his closet for months. He's only had it on once.

When he looks up, Darcy's standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob.

"Tomorrow I'm going to go say goodbye to the past," the words are thick in his throat. "I'd like to take you with me, if that's okay. I want you to know that part of me, of my life, but I don't want it to control me anymore."

"That, I can understand," she says softly. "I think we all have parts of our life that are like that."

"True, but we have things that save us too, that make us want to live." He smiles and leans against the bedpost. "We all have things we long for, Darcy, even if we don't want to admit to it. Doesn't mean they're bad."

She turns, looking out the window. In profile, her expression is wistful. "I guess this isn't the time to cop to the fantasy about white picket fences and two big dogs, huh?"

"What is it Tony says? I could get behind that?" The idea warms him from the inside out, of being able to come home to this, not so much the house, but to her and this type of feeling. It won't always be clean, but that doesn't mean that things can't be good.

The dog presses against him, wet nose poking at Steve's hand in a silent demand for attention. He lets the dog nudge his hand back, over eyes and along the back of its shaggy head. Once satisfied, the dog mashes its head back into Steve's leg with what sounds like the canine version of a contented sigh.

"Yeah," he says, smiling down at the dog. "I totally get what you mean."


	10. Chapter 10

Darcy's proclamation that it's 'just a house' unravels the minute Muriel sweeps in the door, sparking off a flurry of activity and laughter that's infectious. Slim and athletic with short dark hair, she could pass easily for Darcy's mother, and at times acts like her sister.

"Who says seventy-four has to be old?" she says, clasping Steve's hand tightly in her own. "But you're making me wish I was forty. God love it, will you _look_ at those baby blues?"

All of one hundred and fifteen pounds, Muriel pulls Steve through the house like a drill sergeant, stopping here and there to call out random points of interest. There's the step where Darcy fell and split open her chin when she was six, or the shadow box of medals that her older brother, Darcy's Great-Uncle, received during World War II. He follows dutifully, trying not to laugh at the way she colors her stories with little asides and dramatic eye rolls. Not only does Darcy favor her aunt physically, she has her energy and sarcasm, too.

"This is my favorite room in the house," she declares as they enter the kitchen. "Not that I cook well, but I just love the way it feels. Now sit," she commands.

Steve hesitates, not sure if she's speaking to him or the dog.

"Darcy, honey, will you open a bottle of wine? There are a few bottles in the pantry. Maybe a cabernet? I'm going to throw some steaks on the grill, and I think merlot will be too heavy."

They're throwing around words that are foreign to Steve, but the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life takes the edge off. He pulls a chair back from the table, studies it for a moment, then flips it around backwards so that he can face the activity. It's clear he doesn't want to miss a moment of this Lewis family reunion.

"May I help with anything, ma'am?" Steve asks. He's no good in the kitchen, but he was raised to always be polite, even if he didn't have anything to offer.

Muriel's drops an armload of vegetables on the table, tomatoes and carrots and big, bushy heads of lettuce. Lightning fast, her hand is out, clasping his cheek between her thumb and forefinger.

"So sweet," she says, gently patting his cheek to sooth away the sting of her pinch. "Thank you, but no, you're a guest. Now sit right there and talk to me. I know the basics - Jabber jaws out there won't shut up about you. But she censors the good stuff."

"What would you like to know?"

Muriel snaps the rubber band free from bundle of carrots and chops off the tops with a large knife. "Did you really try and argue with our girl about Korea?"

"Which part?" he asks sheepishly. They've debated a number of things, so many that Steve can't keep track of who's won or lost.

Muriel throws back her head, and her laugh is deep and full. It brings Heckle trotting into the room, pink tongue lolling to the side. He stops at his mistress's leg, sniffing once before moving on to Steve. All it takes is one or two strokes across the brow for Heckle to drop his snout on Steve's knee and sigh contentedly.

"I see you're winning my entire family over." Muriel says. She uses the knife to force the sliced carrots to the side, and starts in on the bright red radishes. "This visit may end up being more interesting than I thought."

"I hear obnoxious laughter," Darcy calls from the pantry. "IS she flirting with you?"

"Just a little," Steve admits. It earns him a wink from Muriel.

Darcy reappears with two bottles of wine. "Honestly, woman, you are so bad! "

She places the bottle on the table and drapes her arms loosely around Steve's neck, her fingers lacing loosely together to form a circle. "If you could have seen the things that she got up to with my Uncle Jonathan…." She shudders melodramatically. "Young children are stunted by that level of sappiness."

"Careful there, kettle," Muriel warns, "The night is young and the apple didn't fall far from the tree."

**O-O**

Dinner is excellent, the steaks and salad simple and perfect. Darcy and Muriel drink wine, and even though alcohol has no effect on him, Steve steals a sip or two from Darcy's glass. It's heavy and warm and tastes like blueberries and sunshine. Once when Muriel is out of the room, he catches Darcy and pulls her close, basking in the way she tastes like wine and chocolate.

Once the table is clear, they return to the living room, where Muriel's more than happy to explain the provenance of the paintings throughout the house. It seems that everything here has a story, a little memory or a laugh. This is the kind of house that people long to grow up in, not just for the opulence, but for the love and the laughter. They finish the second bottle of wine, and Darcy nestles into his side, her head resting lazily against his shoulder.

"You okay?" he whispers when Muriel excuses herself to go to the powder room.

"Perfect," she says, her words slightly slurred. "Tired, but perfect. What do you think of Auntie M?"

"I like her a lot," Steve admits. "Not that I expected otherwise."

Darcy smiles, her eyes drifting shut. "She likes you, too."

"Good, because I think I'd be scared to think if what she'd do if she didn't."

She starts to laugh, but it quickly turns into a yawn.

"I think I need to go to bed," she says, slowly sitting up. "All that wine and the fresh air did me in."

Steve helps her to her feet, his hand braced on the back of the couch, ready to follow. "Do you need me to walk you up?"

"I think I can get to my childhood bedroom okay from my living room," she teases. "Plus Heckle will follow. He likes to cuddle."

"Lucky dog."

"Are you jealous?" she asks, her smile lazy. "Me, Heckle, and your size infinity pajama pants. It's a hot party."

"Temptation." He kisses her hand, not wanting to let go. "See you in the morning?"

"MMM," she's drifting toward the door, wobbling a bit.

"Off to bed?" Muriel meets her at the door, her arms open wide. Darcy walks easily into them, and the two women rock back and forth for a moment, murmuring things too low for Steve to hear.

"Good night, love. Sweet dreams," she says, kissing Darcy gently on the cheek. "I'll make sure Steven gets tucked in all safe and sound."

"My boyfriend," Darcy says, swatting unsteadily at her aunt. "Hands off."

They giggle and tip their heads together in one more brief embrace before Darcy floats, albeit a little unsteadily, up the steps.

Muriel reclaims her place across from Steve, leaning to the side so that she can tuck her feet up underneath her body.

'It's good to see her smile like that. My Darcy has a smile that can light up an entire city when she wants to."

"You love her a lot."

She takes a sip of her wine, and leans her chin in her hand, staring directly into Steve's eyes. Jekyll trots into the room, turning twice in a circle before lying down at her feet.

"I can see I'm not the only one," she says.

Somewhere in another room, a clock chimes softly. It's the only sound in the house, but it's not uncomfortable at all.

"Steven," she says, her voice even. "I don't have children, and I don't have a husband anymore, god rest his soul. Darcy's all that's left to me in the world, and I want to see her happy."

"That's all I want, ma'am," he says, overwhelmed by the need to justify his intentions.

Muriel holds up her wine glass, watching the way the light shines through the ruby liquid. "I heard someone compare the concept of love to a falcon once. It sinks it's talons into you when it lifts you up, and then you are soaring higher than you've ever been. It's beautiful and amazing, but if you lose it, there are holes were it sank into you, and they never fill back in."

She twirls the wine around in the bowl, watching the way the liquid clings to the glass.

"To outsiders, it probably looks like Darcy has everything. What they don't see is what she never talks about - growing up in boarding schools because her parents were too busy to care. Being disappointed time and time again by friends who weren't really friends at all," Muriel pauses, letting the words sink in. "Darcy does not let people in easily, Steven. She's been abandoned too many times, and it hurts her too much. But somehow, even with all that disappointment, she opened up to you, and it's transformed her. She's happier than I've ever seen her."

"I think that," he admits, "but then there are times when she's so…fragile." He shifts his gaze down to the barely transparent circles on his pants leg, flecks of drool from a dog too happy to turn away from a good ear scratching.

"You mean the incident in Jane Foster's lab?"

Steve looks up sharply. "She told you about that?"

"She couldn't very well show up here with cuts on her face and a shiner, could she?" Muriel continues to stare directly at him, her focus unwavering. "Jonathan and I were the only ones to ever put her first, you know. I think it's second nature for Darcy to expect people to let her down, or to not care."

"But she has friends in New York, people who care about her…"

"True," Muriel says, "But they also love other people. She's not…how do you say, top of mind with them. But with you, she is. She needs that – more than most people do."

It's a small detail, but it's the missing piece that helps all the other parts come into focus. All those little disjointed moments, the actions and reactions to things that Steve could never quite understand, they all form together to show him what he's been missing.

Muriel smiles and stands, startling Jekyll out of sleep. She strokes the dog's head, and when she speaks, the vibrancy is gone, replaced by something much quieter. "You're like me, aren't you, Jekyll? You look good for your age, but it's creeping up on you fast."

When she looks up at Steve, the spark of life is gone. Muriel isn't invincible or ageless, even if she tries to act that way for Darcy. "She needs you, not someone, but you, Steven. Take care of her for me, please?

She steps close enough to touch his cheek, but this time there isn't any pinch, just the warm pressure of her fingers against his skin. "You have my approval and my blessing."

Steve catches her hand, squeezing it gently.

"Sleep well," she whispers, and slips away into the darkness of the house.

**O-O**

Instead of going to bed, Steve sits in the living room, replaying scenes from the past, both near and distant. He files away the time here in this house, promising that it won't be the last time talking with Muriel like this, or feeling that magic that comes from being part of a home.

When the clock chimes one, Steve finally gives, walking quietly up the steps to his bedroom. At the third floor landing he hesitates for just a moment, then turns, quietly scaling the final set of steps up to the fourth floor.

Smaller than the rest of the house, the top floor is one full room, with French doors at the back end opening on to a small patio. A large sleigh bed and an overstuffed chair dominates the other side. Bookshelves cover the walls, recessed lights casting a gentle glow over clusters of photos and other mementoes. There are pictures of Darcy at all ages - some with Muriel, others with Muriel and a man, who must be her husband Jonathan, holding hands. There's a recent one, her lying in her back in the living room, Heckle stretched out underneath her head for support. The absences speak volumes….no friends, no photos of her parents. A lone snapshot of her and Jane Foster, wedged into the corner of a frame, is the only representation of life outside of these four walls.

It's all so obvious to him now, the little comments, her devastation at being forgotten.

At the foot of the bed, Heckle begins to chuff quietly, his paws scrambling frantically. Darcy throws a leg over the dog's body, mumbles something, and hugs a pillow close to her chest. The plaid flannel of Steve's pajama pants is bright against Heckle's black fur.

Not wanting to wake her, Steve pulls the comforter up over her exposed shoulder, and then slips quietly back down the steps to his own room. The bed is large and comfortable, but without Darcy there beside him, Steve tosses and turns until finally dropping off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The laughter that echoes down the hallway is raucous - not polite, well-mannered giggles - but full on belly laughs. Steve eases the door shut behind him and wipes his face on his sleeve. The house came to life while he was out running, and it would seem the heartbeat lives in the kitchen.

He follows the noise down the hallway to find them at the table, leaning into each other conspiratorially. Darcy's still wearing her pajamas – the legs of his flannel pants rolled up so as not to swamp her tiny frame.

"There's the man of the hour!" Muriel pushes back from the table, her arms thrown wide. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Water would be great, thank you." He sits down on the floor, elbows draping easily over bent knees. "Jekyll gave me some doe eyes this morning, but I didn't want to presume that he would be okay to run. He seemed really lonely this morning." He darts a sideways glance at Darcy. "Can't imagine where his partner in crime is."

"Hogging the covers," Darcy admits. "Heckle is really a seventeen year old boy. He'll roll out when he's hungry or has to take a leak."

"That's because you indulge him," Muriel says. She's poured him a glass of ice water and orange, forcing the latter on him with the type of maternal glare that's equal parts affection and steel. "Can I make you something to eat, Steven?"

"No, thank you." He takes sip of water and leans back against the wall. One sharp snap of his fingers brings Jekyll trotting in from the other room, tail wagging lazily from side to side. He sniffs Steve's chest and nuzzles his cheek, then happily drops down on the floor. "I hope you don't mind, I pillaged some fruit and toast before I went out for my run."

"He never sleeps," Darcy says before taking another sip of coffee. "And he's perky as hell all the time, too."

"And you know this _how_, young lady?" Muriel's looks down her nose at her niece, and Darcy colors under the scrutiny.

"I don't! I mean-"

"It's true," Steve admits. "I don't sleep much. Never have." He takes another sip of water. "Well, aside from that one stretch, but I guess that's why I'm here, isn't it?"

He takes another sip of water and strokes Jekyll's head. The dog snuffles happily and presses into his side, eyes drifting shut. Dogs were never really an option growing up, too much maintenance and not enough space, not to mention dog fur and an asthmatic boy. Now, though, he can't help but play what if - a bigger place, maybe somewhere close to a park, with enough space for a dog. Not something as big as Heckle or Jekyll, but there are so many options. They could get a puppy, take him for walks, and Darcy could teach him how to play fetch.

The more Steve thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. The place he keeps is Brooklyn doesn't feel right anymore. Maybe when he gets back, he'll start doing some digging around, maybe even talk to Pepper about helping him find something to buy.

Things have changed, he thinks, patting Jekyll's head one last time.

When he looks up, he catches Muriel, darting glances back and forth between him and Darcy, whose head is bowed over her coffee. Just when the silence is about to become oppressive, Darcy pushes back from the table, coffee mug in hand. "We should probably make hay while the sun shines, then. What time do you want to leave?"

She offers Steve her free hand, her fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist as leverage. The moment he's upright, she lets go, but Steve catches her hand to keep her close.

"Half an hour work okay?" He drops his head, trying to narrow the conversation just to them. He's missed something, it's obvious in the way she's pulling back. "You sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah, I just need to dig something out of the closet," she says. Up close, he can see how she's used makeup to the bruises, but little red scabs still dot her temple. Darcy shakes her head, hiding the damage behind her hair. "I have to look suitable to meet your friends."

"I don't think that will be an issue," he says, touching her cheek softly. "This sore?"

"Not so much, anymore. Another day or two and I'll be good as new." She won't look at him, and Steve wants to push, to ask her what's wrong. He glances up at Muriel, but she's turned away, fixing her attention diplomatically on the newspaper.

"I'm going to take a quick shower then," he says. His hand is still hovering close to her face. "Meet you down here at nine?"

"Yeah," she answers softly. Before he can say anything more, Darcy spins, and flies up the steps, Jekyll trailing after her.

**O-O**

It's a short drive from Georgetown to Arlington, and aside from Darcy's request to stop at a flower shop, they don't speak. The bouquet of daisies, wrapped in paper and cellophane, rustles lightly in the breeze, the scent mixing with Darcy's perfume. When Steve glances over at her, Darcy is staring straight ahead, her eyes hidden behind her big sunglasses. It's not enough to mask the little tells, like the way she tries to hook her fingers into her cuff, or the way she chews on her lower lip when something is wrong.

She's pulling away, putting up a guard just like she put on her expensive dress and high heels. After all these years and so many disappointments, Steve wonders if Darcy's even aware of what she is doing.

They cross the Potomac, following the signs into the parking garage on the border of the cemetery. An older couple stops, openly staring at Steve as he slips out of the car and hurries around to open Darcy's door, but he doesn't pay them any attention. He knows that a seventy-year-old uniform is going to stand out, especially here - it's the one place where a uniform will outshine his face or the myth.

Steve catches Darcy by the elbow as she climbs out of the car, so much taller in her glossy black heels. The bouquet of daisies dangles limply at her side. "Thank you," he says, his fingers trailing down her arm toward the daisies.

"It didn't seem right to not bring flowers."

"I meant for coming here with me." He turns, looking up the drive. Black iron gates, embellished with gold, guard the entrance. They look just like the illustrations from school, the ones the nuns used to show of the pearly gates. It feels like ages ago, him and Bucky sitting in the back row or playing stickball in the schoolyard. He takes a deep breath, bottling it all up inside of him. "Let's go do this."

Darcy pulls away, walking slowly up the drive, her hair blowing in the wind. From behind, she is timeless, fitting as easily in the twenty-first century as she would in the nineteen forties. When she turns, he catches her face in profile - pale skin and crimson lips - and a sharp pain shoots through him. It's not the way she looks or how she moves, or even that she stopped to get flowers, it's that she did it all for him. She gives and gives without ever taking, not once demanding something for herself.

Suddenly, Dr. Erskine's prompting to be a good man takes on a different meaning, and Steve wonders if he hasn't been going about things all wrong since day one.

**O-O**

They lay flowers at each grave. Gabe, Dum Dum, even Gilmore Hodges, who never did anything other than torment a much smaller Steve. Darcy stands quietly behind him as he lays a single daisy on top of Chester Phillips marker and salutes the man who was his toughest critic and, ultimately, his greatest supporter.

"Come on," he says, leading her back down the hill. There is one last marker, and he's intentionally saved it for last.

"Bucky Barnes moved into our building three weeks before my sixth birthday," he says as they walk. "I'd been sick, seems like I was always sick when I was little, and my mother had to go out and get medicine. She asked Grandma Barnes to look in on me, but it turns out Grandma was a bit forgetful when she got into the whisky. Lucky for me, Bucky was bored. He came in her place, and he never really left."

The ground is level here, and Darcy is walking cautiously on her toes, trying to keep from snagging her high heels in the soft earth. Steve counts the markers, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

There it is. James Buchanan Barnes, Private. Medal of Honor, United States Army.

"It would figure you'd have the plot next to a tree," Steve says, looking up at the great sprawling oak as his voice cracks. "You always did have the luck."

The stone is weathered from years of exposure, the lettering faded but still legible. Steve kneels down to pull a few long strands of grass away from the stone. He knows that Bucky isn't there, that it's just an empty grave, but it doesn't matter. It's all that's left of his best friend in the world.

"Things didn't work out quite like we hoped," he admits to the stone. The words come easier than he expects, even if they do hurt. "We did our part to save the world, but we never really stopped to think about what came after, did we? All those big plans, but what were they for, you know? You died, and I lost everything and I couldn't put it back together."

All those months, locked away, avoiding the world bubble to the surface. His anger at being the only one left standing, at not fitting in anywhere. He'd never truly been alone, not the way others have, and it made the losses all that much worse.

He sniffs, fighting to conquer all the feelings that have been so corrosive for so long. When he looks up, there's a shadow over the corner of Bucky's marker, the slim silhouette of a woman, waiting patiently. "The kicker in it all," he says, his voice still rough. "Is that in the middle of all this, I met this girl, and well, the two of you together probably would've ended my life. She's brave like you. She may even be more stubborn, if that's possible."

Steve laughs, and touches the cool granite. "I think about you every day, and I wish you were here."

He doesn't know how long he's there, lost in his memories of Bucky. When he does finally stand, Darcy's still there waiting for him. Without a word, she steps forward and lays the remaining daisies on Bucky's grave. Her fingers brush lightly over the marker, whispering something that he can't hear.

**O-O**

On the way back to the car, Darcy stumbles. It might have been a loose pebble on the path, or maybe she catches a heel on a step, but it doesn't matter. Steve catches her, scooping her up and holding her close.

"I don't want to do this anymore," he says, suddenly exhausted. "I'm tired of feeling _old_. I need to hear you laugh and see you wandering around in my pajamas again. This is my past…."

Steve takes a deep breath, turning his back to the hill where his old friends are buried. He's always been courageous, but he's finally come to realize that being brave is a very different thing.

"And I think it's time that you and I focus on the future."

He lowers Darcy to the ground, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around her as the walk back to the car. He's cut himself free from the anchor that's had him locked in place. Now it's time to drift free, and trust in where life will take them.


	12. Chapter 12

It's midafternoon when they finally leave Arlington. Darcy takes over, silently navigating them through the monuments and landmarks of downtown Washington D.C. Beyond the National Mall and the Smithsonian, the city is quiet. Maybe that's the way life works outside of the hustle and bustle of Ney York city, Steve thinks.

The restaurant Darcy takes him to is just blocks from The White House, the impressive old granite façade absorbed into part of a larger, more modern structure, but lovingly maintained. A long, dark oak bar lines the far wall, wooden stools lined up for the evening crowd that has yet to materialize.

"Come on," Darcy says, tugging him past the hostess and into the bar. "I think we could both use a drink after-"

"Darcy? Darcy Lewis! I thought it was you!"

They're halfway into the bar, but Darcy is frozen in place, her attention fixed on a young woman approaching them from the other side of the restaurant with her arms spread wide. She drops Steve's hand, turning to face them woman who, now that she's closer, is clearly in her mid to late fifties, if not older. Perfectly styled hair the color of wheat and a perfectly painted face cultivate the illusion of youth at a distance, but under closer scrutiny, the creases and lines around her eyes are clearly visible, even with the all the polish.

"Darling, I didn't know you were in town," the woman says. She leans in, melodramatically kissing the air next to Darcy's proffered cheeks. It's awkward and stilted, and it's uncomfortable to watch.

"We're just down for the weekend." Darcy's speech – the cadence and formation of her words is suddenly more structured. Her body language is different too, shoulders back, chin just a fraction of an inch higher.

"Staying with Muriel?"

"Yes, ma'am," Darcy's answer is generically polite. This is her own form of armor, a shield of polite indifference designed to deflect all the pains and slights that Muriel alluded to the evening before. Even with the painfully obvious transition, the woman plows forward. Either that or she doesn't know Darcy well enough to realize that there's a change at all.

"Just look at you," she says, pulling Darcy's arms wide and giving a once over. "You've slimmed down! Oh, your mother must be so proud to see you finally making an effort."

The backhanded compliment hits its intended mark – Darcy's shoulders drop just the tiniest bit. She's wilting in front of him, her courage and resolve no match for the emotional onslaught of another attack.

"Sweetheart," Steve says, placing his hand on the small of her back. It's an endearment he never uses, but draws attention away from Darcy. "We're going to be late."

Like a magpie on a shiny piece of foil, the woman swings her gaze from Darcy to Steve, eyes raking head to toe and back again. She lingers for a moment on the medals at his chest, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. Unlike most people, her reaction is not one of admiration or gratitude, it's amusement, a haughty little laugh accompanied by a condescendingly bright smile. "And who might this be?"

Darcy glances at Steve, but he holds back, comfortable with drawing the attention, but painfully aware that saying the wrong thing will only make this worse. As the silence draws out, the woman's smile grows, accompanied by the subtlest lift of an eyebrow. She's finding this all infinitely amusing, and it's the proverbial straw to bring everything tumbling down.

"This is Captain _Rogers_," Darcy says, over annunciating his last name. It's not lost on him that she does not introduce the woman, nor does she make any further attempt to explain the situation. Her delivery says it all, brisk and to the point, leaving no room for follow on. "He's part of the _we_ I mentioned. Now if you'll excuse us, we do have other plans. It was…" she hesitates, and Steve pictures the words swirling in her head, little invectives locking together like gears as she struggles to craft the perfect parting shot, "_lovely_ to see you."

Patches of color floods the woman's face - Steve wonders if they are from anger or embarrassment – but it doesn't last for more than a second.

"Of course, darling. So lovely to see you too! Please do call next time you're down, it would be lovely to get all the children together again." She bestows another round of air kisses to Darcy, and offers Steve a big smile. It's all he can do to offer a civil nod of the head in response.

**O-O**

Darcy makes a beeline for back of the room, slamming her purse down on a vacant stool and bracing her hands on the dark wood of the bar.

"When you could drink and feel it, what did you like?" she demands.

"Um," Steve hesitates, not entirely sure if the right answer is the good one. "Bourbon or Irish Whisky."

Darcy flags down the bartender, pointing at a bottle of Bushmills Black on the top shelf. "Whole thing, please, and two glasses."

The bartender, obviously accustomed to demanding customers, slides the bottle across the bar, along with two glasses. Darcy is ready, credit card in hand before Steve can say a word.

"Hit me, and make it good," she says. "I think we've both earned a drink."

He can smell the alcohol and peat as he pours, the amber liquid no different from the drinks he poured for Grandma Buchanan when he was a kid. Darcy stares intently at the glass, shaking her head from side to side. "Five bucks says my mother's phone line is burning up in about twenty minutes. This will be the cherry on the sundae of Darcy disappointments."

She tosses the drink back, grimacing as it burns its way down her throat.

"Most parents would be ecstatic to know that their daughter was dating Captain America. Most parents would also be furious that their child was in town and didn't call. My mother? She'll be put out that I'm wearing something that is clearly last season, and horrified at our relationship because it's so _pedestrian_."

Darcy tries to laugh, but it's too flat. A day at Arlington was hard enough, but this last little encounter has pushed her to the point of breaking, and Steve doesn't have the first clue how to calm her down. "I know!" she says, her cheeks flushed. "I'll take a picture of us and post it to Facebook. _God_, last time I did that I sparked off a shit storm to no end, and there was no carnal knowledge inferred. "

She takes the glass, swirling the liquid around twice before tossing it back in one gulp. Her lips pucker, and there's the subtlest shake of her head, but shakes it off, pushing forward through the burn. Steve can remember Bucky doing the same thing, anger and determination winning over common sense every time.

There's never been a day where Steve has wished that Bucky wasn't around, but deep down he's silently grateful that Bucky and Darcy will never co-exist within the same sphere. In some ways, they're just too alike and even Tony Stark, with all his influence and money wouldn't be able to bail them out of the havoc they'd cause.

On the flipside, it would have been amazing to watch.

"Fill her up," Darcy says, nudging the glass back to Steve. He doesn't hesitate, filling the glass, hoping she doesn't notice that it's not quite as full as last time. She pounds it down, wincing and shaking her head in disgust. "God, this stuff tastes like shit."

"You're supposed to sip it," Steve says. "The point is to enjoy, not anesthetize."

"Well I hope you're comfortably numb."

She barks a laugh, her hand slamming into her mouth once the sound is out. "Sorry, cultural reference." Darcy folds her arms, using them as a brace as she leans against the bar, her head down. "I'm sorry about that. Twenty-four years old and I still let this all get to me. I should be over it by now, but all I want to do is…" she darts a glance to the side, "Please don't be offended by this, but I really wanted to say something crude and obnoxious about us to really get her riled up. It's juvenile, and it's not fair to you, but I just wanted to….." she groans, banging her head softly against the bar.

"You wouldn't have done that, though," Steve says. He takes a sip of his drink, breathing in the heavy aroma of memories. "But if you'd like me to chase after her and make up something really ridiculous…"

Darcy laughs, and it's deep, from her chest. It's the first real laugh he's heard from her since the morning. She turns her head, cheek pressed against her arms, and looks up at him those wide eyes that can cut right through everything.

"And what would you tell her?"

Steve tips his head back, studying the ceiling. Plaster lines the space between heavy oak beams, elaborating stenciling filling the canvas with color and life. A thousand little details like this make up the room, but he doubts people slow down and take the time to notice each little piece. All they see is the final impression. "I guess," he says, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "I could tell her you asked me to rip your shirt off once."

It's hard to tell whether Darcy snorts or laughs, but she has her hand over her mouth so fast, there's no chance to hear another.

"Hey, it's the truth!" he proclaims innocently.

Darcy sits up, one arm still propped lazily on the bar. The drinks have taken the edge off whatever it is that's been haunting her, or simply removing some of the sting. "When you look like that in a uniform, I can pretty much guarantee that people will believe it. Oh man," She laughs again and shakes her head, her gaze soft and out of focus. "I love ya, Steve."

She might not be aware of what she's just said, but it's out there, and Steve grabs on with both hands.

"Hey." He slips down, off his barstool, closing the space between them. Darcy looks up, and he catches her under the chin, preventing her from looking away. "I love you, too."

The words feel foreign on his tongue, awkward in the formation because it's been so long since he's used them in a way that carries any meaning. But, then it doesn't matter, because the way Darcy looks at him chases all the schoolboy fumbling away. He could compare it to the way he feels when he's done something truly amazing, when all of his power and the agility come together in a way that makes him invincible, but that's nothing compared to this.

He could be ten feet tall, flying to the moon, curing cancer – the way Darcy's face softens, the innocence, the surprise, even the hope, is beyond all of that.

"Can I still tell them you ripped my shirt off?" she asks solemnly.

Their laughter comes so much easier this time, and when Steve puts his arms around her, she leans in, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder. "I guess you got more than you planed on this road trip, didn't you?"

"I don't know if I expected anything, but I'd say that the trip so far has been exceptional."

"You have some seriously low standards, Steve."

He laughs, pulling her in closer. The tide is turning, and while everything isn't perfect, they're at a place where they can work toward it. "I won't tell Muriel you said that."

"She's an exception to the rule. So are my boys." She sighs, turning her head so that her forehead rests against his chest. "I don't want to be here anymore."

"But what about your wings?"

Darcy sits up, running her hands through her hair. The makeup she's used to cover the bruising has rubbed off, but she's better this way, because she's not hiding. Soon enough, they'll be gone, and hopefully, in time, the scars that lie beneath will be, too.

"Let's get them to go," she says. "I want my pajamas-"

"My pajamas.

"My _pajamas_." She stands up, grabbing him by the lapel and pulling him close. "But we will revisit the uniform in the near future, Captain." She smiles up at him, so like Bucky that it's scary.

"Come on," he says, hand out to flag down the bartender. "I think it's time we go home."


	13. Chapter 13

They return to an empty house, lights glowing in the entry the only greeting. Darcy leads the way back to the kitchen, takeout bag held high, out of the reach of wet puppy noses.

"You can't handle spicy," she chides Jekyll. "Been there, done that, stained that t-shirt."

The dogs prance around her, tails wagging as they whine and chuff for treats. Steve hangs back, out of the way, as he watches Darcy transform. There's something about this house, the way she moves around the kitchen, bumping doors closed with a hip or licking sauce of her thumb, that's so uninhibited and carefree. It's like there's a giant dome over the entire building, shutting out all the bad. Or maybe the bad isn't gone, it's just softened by so much good.

"Dig in," she says when all the food is out spread out on the table. "I'm going to go change. I've had enough of high heels and designer labels to last me a life time."

Darcy runs a hand over the front of her dress, smoothing a nonexistent crease. There's a small indentation between her eyebrows, the tiniest little chink in her armor. She can't look at herself and see what he sees – all that's there is the backhanded compliment from the woman in the restaurant, subtly pointing out non-existent flaws as a way to make herself superior.

"Hey," he says, catching Darcy by the hand. "I kind of liked the shoes." His cheeks burn - compliments still don't come easy, even when deserved. "I like everything, actually."

There's no easy way for Steve to say what he's thinking – that he wishes that she'd wear the red lipstick more often, or that he likes the way she moves in high heels. If there had been time today, he would have inked out a rough outline of her walking down the path. It would have been one long line, not much more, contoured to match the way her hips swung back and forth.

He pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and holding her close. Darcy is stiff at first, but then quickly relaxes, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing her face into his chest. For all they've been through together, the euphoria, the fear, the peaceful moments in between, this is different and completely removed because everything is finally there. The good and the bad are all rolled together, intertwined in a way that makes going back to easier times impossible, while teasing of the future and all that is to come.

"You okay?"

Darcy nods her head, but she doesn't release her grip on Steve. "I'm sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?"

He feels the sigh, the heavy rise and fall of her back, and the pressure against his chest. "Today wasn't…well…" the words are muffled, and Steve has to strain to hear what she says. "I'm not proud of the way I acted today."

He combs his fingers through Darcy's hair, content in her warmth and the way their bodies meld together. He knows now that he'll do anything for her, even if it means fighting all the demons she's never been strong enough to conquer.

"Why don't you go change clothes," he says, "and then we can eat and talk. Okay?"

She nods again, but doesn't let go. It kills him to do it, but Steve slowly pulls away, his grip loosening so that he can force space between them.

"Go on," he says, tipping his head toward the stairs. "I promise I'll be right here."

That little ripple is still there, between her eyebrows, a single crease. He runs his index finger over it, coaxing the tension free. Her expression softens, curiosity and contentment relaxing the line until it's barely visible. Steve turns his hand, his knuckles skimming along her cheekbone.

"I'm not going anyway, Darcy. I promise. You and me - team. Okay?"

It's only then that she is finally willing to let go, leaving Steve alone in the kitchen with a pile of food and a strangely vacant spot in his chest that will be empty until she's back.

**O-O**

"Come on, you big sissy," Darcy says. Her lips are swollen, her eyes glassy. "Or are you not man enough?"

Empty takeout containers litter the surface, filled with chicken bones and empty mussel shells. A pile of oyster crackers lies between them, flanked by four plastic cups filled with a garish orange-red sauce deceptively titled wing sauce, but Steve calls stupidity. Darcy leans lazily against the table, one arm bent to support her chin. She's been downing sauce on crackers like there's no tomorrow, daring Steve to keep up.

He dredges the cracker in the hot sauce and pops it in his mouth, trying to ignore the searing pain in his mouth. When it's finally unbearable, Steve grabs the carton of milk, popping the spout open and drinking deeply to dull the pain.

There's a metallic click. Steve lowers the carton – to star right into the lens of Darcy's cell phone. "Not only can Captain America _not_ handle spicy, I got him to drink straight from the carton. Somewhere, hell is freezing over." She's laughing at him, her nose wrinkling like a little girl.

"Well, Ms. Lewis, I guess we know what your super power is," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hmm, yeah, if we ever have an invasion of evil chili peppers, I'm your girl."

"I thought we established that a while back."

Steve leans forward, arms braced on the table, milk carton long forgotten. He's discarded his uniform jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up, safely away from the wing sauce.

"How do you do that?" she says.

"Do what?"

"Consistently give me warm fuzzies."

Steve leans his head to the side, studying her. "Can't say I know what a warm fuzzy is."

"We need to fix that!" Darcy jumps up, snagging her foot on the chair as she runs to grab a pen and paper off the counter. The alcohol is wearing off, replaced by the endorphin high of super spicy food and a day of emotional turmoil. Her crash is inevitable, Steve knows that, but he's still not sure how to ease into the conversation. Until now, he's been content to let this ride, even if it does mean burning away half of his esophagus in the process.

She plunks paper and pen down on the table in front of him, narrowly missing one of the sauce cups. A chair is jerked back from the table, legs screeching against the hardwood floor. "You, my friend, need a bucket list."

"A bucket list?"

Darcy collapses dramatically into the chair, her arm draping over the surface of the table like she's preparing for a photo. "From now on, when I use a reference that you don't know, or we talk about something you want to do, write it down, that way we don't lose track."

Steve stares down at the paper. It could cover anything and everything, where to even begin?

"Number one - watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. You've used Island of Misfit Toys a few times, but you don't know what it means."

"That's just something Natasha said -" Steve protests, "I didn't realize - "

"Exactly, now write it down." His inaction is rewarded by a sharp nudge with Darcy's barefoot. "Write!"

"Okay," he mutters and picks up the pen. "You are _so_ bossy."

"You don't know the half of it. Now keep writing. I want ice cream."

She's up again, digging through the freezer and muttering to herself. While she complains about too much green and not enough cream, Steve glances around the kitchen. Heckle's stretched out on the floor, eyes closed. Keys lay discarded on the counter, along with a pair of sunglasses.

He laughs, shaking his head, and for the first time in…well, in forever, he starts to make a plan. Each bullet on his list is brief, just one or two words, but each one builds on the other, foundational pieces that can expand out infinitely.

"Whatcha got?" Darcy's hovering over his shoulder, a small container of ice cream and two spoons clutched in her hand. He grabs her gently by the hip and pulls her into his lap, careful to keep a hand between her back and the table. She's earned enough war wounds, she doesn't need more.

"I'll tell you, but you have to tell me something, first." Steve holds her firmly in place, preventing the ability to squirm away.

"Okay, fine," Darcy sighs melodramatically. She drops the ice cream and spoons on the table and drapes her arms around his shoulders. Her fingers are cold as she rakes them through the hair at the base of his neck, and Steve fights the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch.

"What were you thinking about today?"

Darcy's mouth opens and closes and she tries to turn away, but there's nowhere to go. Steve tightens the arm wrapped protectively around her, pulling her closer, hoping that she'll trust everything he's said and done, even if her instinct tells her to do otherwise.

"You realize you're stuck with me," he says, filling in the gap when she can't seem to get the words out. "I'm not going to promise you that everything will be perfect, because that would be a lie. You know the world I-" he hesitates, then corrects, "that _we_ live in. There are no guarantees. Gigantic chili monsters could swoop down tomorrow and who knows what could happen."

The joke draws a little smile, but it's not enough to erase her doubt. Words aren't going to displace that, but actions will. It's going to take time, but Steve's finally at peace with having plenty of that at his disposal.

"Number two on my list," he says slowly, tapping twice on the flat of her back, "Is getting out of Brooklyn. It's where I came from, but it's not where I belong."

He smiles and chews on his lower lip while the silence stretches out.

"Number three," he says, drawing the words out. "Number three is find a good park, one with lots of trees that's walkable."

"Walkable to what?"

"My new place. Practical says it needs to be Manhattan, but other than that, I'm open."

"How are you going to pull that off?" She's doing the math in her head, figuring out the difference between Park Slope and the Upper West Side. "That's a pretty serious jump in cost."

"I have a little leverage," he admits, thinking back to the conversations with Director Fury during his re-acclimation. "I've never been selfish, but I think it's time I take advantage of a few of the perks. Within in reason, of course."

"Is this an 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you' type of thing?"

He just smiles and shakes his head. "Five is come up with a good name."

"I told you, I want to be Chili Chick. It's got licensing potential. Besides, I look great in red."

"I don't mean for you," he pauses, letting the silence add fuel to the fire of her impatience. "I meant for the dog."

"Whose dog?"

"Yours. Mine. Or is it just easier to say ours?"

She's stringing together the pieces now, leaving Brooklyn, the park in Manhattan and a place to live…all the little bread crumbs that lead her to the answer, but she doesn't react as Steve expects. Instead, she twists violently in his lap, grabbing a pen and scribbling furiously. When she's done, the pen is discarded, and the ice cream forgotten.

1. See Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer

2. Out of Brooklyn

3. Good Park

4. Apartment – good light

5. Names

6. Watch Indiana Jones Trilogy (the dog's name was Indiana!)

**O-O**

Later that night, somewhere after midnight, she sneaks into bed with him. The floorboards creak under her weight, but he's half-asleep and not quite prepared for the cold hand that slips up, underneath his shirt to press flat against his chest.

"Hey," he murmurs, voice thick. "You're cold."

"You're warm," she says, pressing so close that her body molds to his. "So about this new place, do I get a key?"

He lets out a long, sleepy sigh, and squeezes her hand. "Is that all you want?"

"That and a drawer are good for now, but I get to amend terms. Fair?"

Steve smiles and squeezes her hand, "I'll even let you put your name on the mailbox if you want, Chili Chick."

"Night, Steve." She kisses his shoulder. "See you in the morning."

"Next hundred thousand," he says, already slipping back down into sleep. "But who's counting?"


	14. Chapter 14

The morning is torture - slow, delicious, wicked torture.

It would seem that declarations of love are tantamount to taking the gloves off, especially when it comes to pushing physical boundaries. Steve learns a few things – one: Darcy is very vocal when pushed. Two: she's also _very_ ticklish.

"This isn't over," Darcy calls from the bathroom. "And just remember, when we get back to New York, there won't be any childish hang ups about my childhood home. That's a whole new ballgame, mister."

Steve grins up at the ceiling. He can't remember a time when he's felt this alive – not even the minutes after being dosed with the super soldier serum can begin to compare.

"Just remember – " Darcy pops her head out of the bathroom. Her hair is all mussed and flat on one side. "You only got to second base this inning, Captain. When I'm up to bat, I may try for an in the park home run."

He lobs a pillow at her, but she's back in the bathroom before the blow lands, giggling the whole time.

**O-O**

"Promise me you'll call when you get home," Muriel says. She's been holding on to Darcy for the last minute, clearly trying not to cry.

"Muriel, I will, chill-" Darcy's trying to be tough, but they all know she enjoys the attention. Steve and Muriel already snuck in a quick pow wow on this while Darcy got dressed. He's more than prepared to do what it takes to break down all the walls built by years of neglect, not that it will be at all miserable showering her with attention. He's also snuck in a quick call to Jane Foster, which took some tap dancing and soul searching, since he didn't know how to reach her directly, nor did he exactly relish the idea of sharing time. After a few rounds of wrong extensions through Stark Enterprises, he's managed to prep her for Darcy's return tomorrow, along with encouraging some very much needed cultivation to a friendship that means a lot to both of them.

"You take care of my girl," Muriel says to him. She's still holding on to Darcy, but her grip is loser, and Darcy pivots, so that they are cheek to cheek. They're both smiling and flushed. Darcy looks better than he's ever seen her, and it has nothing to do with outward appearance.

"I was kind of hoping she'd take care of me," he jokes, which earns him a dirty look from both of the Lewis women. "You'll come up soon?"

"Thanksgiving," she promises. "We'll gorge ourselves and go to the parade."

She kisses Darcy once more on the cheek, then presses her fingers to her lips and turns them to Steve. The gratitude that passes between them is silent, but unmistakable.

_Thank you._

"You ready?" He slips his sunglasses on and plops down in the driver's seat. The sun is out, and it's just warm enough to take one last ride with the top down. "If we leave now, we should get home by dinner."

Darcy climbs in the car, the door chunking closed behind her. "Wing battle, round two?"

"I just got feeling back in my lips," he protests.

"I have other ways of remedying that."

He laughs and starts the car, revving the engine once, twice. "What'll you give me if I get us home by four?"

"That would require speeding, Captain."

"But it's for a good cause, right?" He lets the clutch out, tires squealing as they pull away from the curb. "Besides, I'm a good guy, but I'm not always a boy scout."

Their laughter mixes together, high and low, masculine and feminine. It fills the space between, and stays with them all the way.

-fin-

**And that's all she wrote…but since I can't let it go at that… I always intended to make this a character study from Steve's POV on what a relationship and coming to terms with his own baggage looks like. In the course of doing so, I identified a few tangents – either complimenting something mentioned in this story, or things that have been alluded to. I'm going to take a run at fleshing out some of those – some via Steve, but most via Darcy, which will put a slightly different spin on things. Part of the fun of this was seeing Darcy through Steve's eyes, but flipping it is going to be another set of challenges and fun, too.**

**So anyway, that's TL;DR for stay tuned, there will be some one offs coming (I promised Lucy a few things, I have to make good), and thank you so much for buying in to this little hair brained combo I cooked up. It's been a lot of fun!**


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